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HARRISON  FORD  TAKES^N  THE  FUTURE  IN  ^BLADE  RUNNER’ 


NEW  JOURNEYS  OF  THE  IMAGINATDN 


Rod  Scrlings 


JUNE  1982/$2 


A TZ  First! 


Richard  Matheson’s ‘THE  DOLL 

THE  ‘TWILIGHT  ZONE’  EPISODE  YOU  NEVER  SAW 


Photo  section: 

A Gallery  of  Grotesques 

NINE  NEW  TALES 
of  Indian  Magic 
Monstrous  Binhs 
and  Zombies 

TZ  Interviews 

Hugo -Winner  Philip  K.  Dick 

An  author’s  eye-view 
ot  ‘Blade  Runner’ 

MOTHER’S  DAY  SPECIAL 
A trio  of  Moms 
you’ll  never  forget!  ' 


Thomas  Disch 
on  books 
Gahan  Wilson 
on  movies 


AND  ALWAYS  ...  THE  UNEXPECTED 


A laga/iix: 


nr^ROD  SERLING’S 

TODGHT 

2PNE““ 


FEATURES 


PNE 


In  the  Twilight  Zone 
Other  Dimensions:  Books 
Other  Dimensions:  Screen 
Other  Dimensions:  Music 
Other  Dimensions:  Etc. 

Fantasy  in  Clay 
TZ  Interview:  Philip  K.  Dick 
Screen  Previe^  ‘Blade  Runner’ 

Show-by-Show  ^ide  to  TV’s  ‘Twilight  Zone’:  Part  Fifteen 
The  Story  Behind  ‘The  Doll’ 

TZ  Discovery:  ‘The  Doll’ 

FICTION  ~ 

Browning’s  Lamps 
Anniversary  Dinner 
The  Dark  Ones 
Alan’s  Mother 
Zombies 
Home  Visit 

Mrs.  Halfbooger’s  Basement 
The  Broken  Hoop 
Some  Days  Are  Like  That 
Cover  art  by  Malcolm  McNeill 


June  1982 

4 

Thomas  M.  Disch  6 

Gahan  Wilson  10 

Jack  Sullivan  14 

^ 

Scott  Hyde  35 

John  Boonstra  47 

James  Vemiere  53 

Marc  Scott  Zicree  85 

Marc  Scott  Zicree  91 

Richard  Matheson  92 

David  Nemec  22 

D.  J.  Pass  42 
Richard  Christian  Matheson  46 

Steve  RasnicTem  58 

* Dolly  Ogawa  61 

Roger  Koch  64 

Lawrence  C.  Connolly  70 

Pamela  Sargent  76 

Bruce  J.  Balfour  84 


[l  N ' T H E ■ T Wj_J L I G M T ZONE: 


j The  mind’s  eye . . 

I 


I 


The  late  John  Collier  was  well 
knoAvn  for  dozens  of  wonderfully 
macabre  short  stories  (such  as  “The 
Chaser,”  adapted  in  1960  for  The 
Twilight  Zone),  as  well  as  for  the 
bizarre  novel  His  Monkey  Wife,  but 
his  strangest  book  may  well  have 
been  his  last.  It  was  called  Milton’s 
"Paradise  Lost”:  Screenplay  for 
Cinema  of  the  Mind,  and  though 
there  was  briefly  some  talk  that 
Fellini  might  try  to  film  it,  the  book 
was  really  the  cinematic  equivalent  of 
closet  drama,  written  not  for  stage 
or  screen  but  for  the  reader’s 
imagination.  One  of  the  screenplay’s 
most  memorable  images,  I re(M, 
was  of  the  Fall  of  the  Rebel  Angels; 
Collier  described  them  as  filling  the 
skies  like  a fall  of  snow. 

(Incidental  note:  Next  month’s 
TZ  will  feature  an  interview  with  the 
celebrated  Canadian  writer  Robertson 
Davies,  whose  novel  The  Rebel  Angels 
is  currently  winning  much  acclaim 
here;  and  the  following  month  will 
see  an  interview  with  The  Tvnlight 
Zone’s  Douglas  Heyes,  director  of— 
among  other  episodes— ‘"The 
Chaser.”) 

Readers  of  this  month’s  TZ  will 
have  the  chance  to  exercise  their 
own  minds’  eyes  with  The  Doll,  an 
unproduced  Tnnlight  Zone  script  by 
RICHARD  MATHESON.  Matheson 
himself  pictured  Martin  Balsam  and 
Maiy  La  Roche  in  the  two  main 
roles,  according  to  MARC  SCO’TT 
ZICREE’s  Story  Behind  ‘The  Doll,  ’ 
but  you  are  free  to  cast  anyone  you 
like,  from  Tvrilight  Zone  regulars 
Burgess  Meredith  and  Anne  Francis 
to  Arnold  Schwarzenegger  and 
Nastassia  Kinski.  Dream-casting 
imaginary  movies  is  good  clean  fun, 
and  rest  assured  that  no  matter  how 
wild  your  choices  are,  they  can’t  be 
any  worse  than  some  of  Ae  casts 
that  have  actually  made  it  to  the 
screen— such  as  dark  and  hulking 
Oliver  Reed  playing  the  brother  of 
pale,  skinny-as-a-r^  Michael 
Crawford  in  The  Jokers,  or  swart 
blue-collar-type  Charles  Bronson 
playing  an  upper-middle-class 
Manhattan  architect  opposite  Hope 
Lange  in  Death  Wish.  (And  a free 
Twilight  Zone  cat  poster  to  the  first 


Tern 


Koch 


tale,  the  gently  cheerful  “Holiday,” 
and  it  packs  a lot  of  power  into  a 
few  hundred  words. 

Two  other  writers  make  return 
visits  in  this  issue.  PAMELA 
SARGENT,  who  offered  a satiric 
look  at  human-animal  relations  in 
October’s  “Out  of  Place,”  here 
sounds  a darker,  more  haunting  note 
in  The  Broken  Hoop,  a tale  of  two 
cultures  and  two  heavens.  With  The 
Golden  Space  recently  out  from 
Timescape  and  the  young-adult 
Earthse^  soon  to  be  published  by 
Harper  & Row,  she’s  now  hard  at 
I work  on  a longer  novel,  Venvs  of 
Dreams.  The  prolific  S’lEVE 
! RASNIC  TEM,  author  of  “Sleep”  in 


R.  Matheson 


R.  C.  Matheson  Sargent 


reader  who  points  out  what  those 
films  have  in  common.) 

Richard  Matheson,  subject  last 
September  and  October  of  our  only 
two-part  interview,  is  currently 
looking  forward  to  this  fall’s 
Broadway  opening  of  his  new 
suspense  thriller.  Now  You  See  It; 
and  Marc  Scott  Zicree  is  lookup 
forward  to  the  publication  of  his 
Twilight  Zone  Companion  (that’s  the 
new  title),  due  this  fall  from  Bantam. 
Also  featured  in  this  issue  is 
RICHARD  CHRIS’HAN 
MATHESON,  of  that  same  creative 
tribe,  who  contributes  a devastating 
short-short  called  The  Dark  Ones.  It’s 
I a far  cry  from  the  author’s  first  TZ 


Nemec 


Balfour 


ftoto  credits:  Richard  Mothosori/Marc  Scott  Zicree  Sargent/George  Zebrowskt  Tem/Greg  Doyle. 


our  March  issue,  returns  with  Alan’s 
Mother,  a poignant  tale  about  death 
and  maturity  in  the  tradition  of 
Walter  Van  Tilburg  Clark’s  “The 
Watchful  Gods.”  Since  his  previous 
appearance  here  Tem  has  sold 
several  new  stories— and  look  for  his 
novelette  in  Alan  Ryan’s  religious 
fantasy  anthology  Perpetvxd  Light, 
due  in  October  from  Warner  Books. 

If  Tern’s  is  the  mildest  of  the 
three  Mother’s  Day  tales  we’ve 
gathered  for  you  to  month,  the 
nastiest  by  far  comes  from  ROGER 
KOCH  of  Bloomington,  Indiana.  A 
self-described  free-lance  portrait 
artist-tumed-househusband,  Koch  has 
taug^it  English  as  a Peace  Corpsman 
in  Thailand,  traveled  throughout 
Southeast  Asia,  Indonesia,  India,  and 
Iran,  and  worked  as,  among  other 
things,  a social  services  caseworker 
—an  occupation  which  forms  the 
background  of  Home  Visit. 

DOLLY  OGAWA’s  tale  also  has 
a touch  of  autobiography  in  it.  “I 
know  something  about  musicians  and 
a lot  about  moSiers,”  she  says, 
having  “just  barely  survived  the 
raising  of  four  oddy  assorted 
creative  offspring,”  some  of  them, 
like  her  main  character,  musically 
inclined.  Zombies  is  her  first 
published  stoiy. 

This  issue  also  marks  the  fiction 
debut  of  BRUCE  BALFOUR, 
though  he’s  published  interviews  with 
sf/fantasy  writers  in  various  other 
magazines.  He  is  currently  studying 
! computer  science  at  the  University  of 
! California,  Santa  Cruz,  and  reports: 

! “I’m  interested  in  artificial 
I intelligence.  If  things  go  well,  I may 
! try  for  a Ph.D.  from  Stanford.  Then 
1 rU  declare  myself  Emperor.” 

I The  theme  of  motherhood 
resurfaces,  in  a rather  macabre  form, 
in  Mrs.  Halfbooger’s  Basement  by 
LAWRENCE  C.  CONNOLLY, 
whose  fiction  has  appeared  in  those 
two  venerable  and  much-loved 
magazines.  Amazing  and  Fantastic. 
Now  living  and  writing  in  Pittsburgh 
(which,  to  horror  buffs,  is  becoming 
I as  identified  with  George  Romero  as 
Providence  is  with  Lovecraft), 
Connolly  has  worked  as  a newspaper 
reporter,  print  shop  manager,  folk 
singer,  and  studio  musician. 

Anniversary  Dinner  also  features 
a certain  rather  furtive  hint  of 
motherhood.  The  story’s  by  D.  J. 
PASS,  a native  Georgian  and  ex- 


ROOSBHJNG'S 


DGHT 

PNE 


MAGAZJNt 


newspaperman  now  living  in  Nova 
Scotia,  where  he’s  been  occupied,  of 
late,  in  renovating  both  a house  and 
a novel.  Anniversary  Dinner  was 
written  as  a going-away  present  for 
a fiiend  about  to  drive  alone  fi'om 
Georgia  to  Arizona,  and,  says  Pass, 

“I  hope  it  makes  your  readers  as 
paranoid  as  it  did  him.” 

Our  lead  story  this  issue  is  by 
DAVID  NEMEC,  a New  York 
writer  whose  most  recent  novel  was 
Bright  Lights,  Dark  Rooms,  published 
in  1980  by  Doubleday,  with  two  more 
due  to  appear  to  October:  Bad 
Blood  from  Dial  and  The  Systems  of 
M.  R.  Shumas  from  Riverrun  Press. 
Two  of  his  stories  have  also  been 
included  in  Martha  Foley’s  yearly 
honor  roll  of  Best  American  ShoH 
Stories.  As  Browning’s  Lamps 
demonstrates  so  delightfully,  Nemec 
has  a special  feel  for  the  lore  and 
color  of  old-time  baseball,  having 
written  extensively  on  the  sport, 
including  the  historical  text  for  The 
Ultimate  Baseball  Book  (Houghton 
Mifflin,  1979)  and  a series  of  baseball 
quiz  books  for  Macmillan. 

By  way  of  postscript,  we  owe  a 
special  mention  to  Boston  writer 
RICHARD  BOWKER,  whose 
ingenioirs  story  “The  Other  Train 
Phenomenon”  appeared  in  our 
February  issue  but  whose  name 
failed  to  appear  on  this  page.  Del 
Rey  Books  has  just  brought  out  his 
novel  Forbidden  Sanctuary,  and  the 
least  you  can  do  is  buy  it. 

We  also  owe  another  mention, 
with  thanks,  to  reader  Robert 
Anderson,  whose  sharp  eyes  have 
spotted  two  more  omissions  from  our 
Show-by-Show  Guide:  teleplay  credit 
for  “Five  Characters  in  Search  of  an 
Exit”  in  our  November  issue  should 
have  gone  to  Rod  Serling,  and,  in 
the  following  issue,  Robert  Drasin 
deserved  music  credit  for  “The 
Hunt.” 

As  we  go  to  press,  we’ve 
learned  of  the  death  at  fifty-three 
of  PHILIP  K.  DICK,  who’s 
interviewed  in  this  issue  by  JOHN 
BOONSTRA,  film  critic  for  the 
Hartford  Advocate.  His  death  seems 
all  the  more  tragic  because  it  comes 
on  the  eve  of  the  release  of  Blade 
Runner,  which  promised  to  be  one 
of  the  most  talked-about  films  of  the 
year.  Phil  Dick  would  have  shared, 
deservedly,  in  its  success. 

-TK 


TZ  Publications  Inc. 

S.  Edward  Orenstein 
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Sidney  Z.  Gellman 
Secretary /Treasurer 
Leon  Garry 
Eric  Protter 

Executive  Vice-Presidents 

Executive  Publisher: 

S.  Edward  Orenstein 
Publisher:  Leon  Garry 
Associate  Publisher  and 
Consulting  Editor:  Cafol  Serling 
Editorial  Director:  Eric  Protter 

Editor:  T.E.D.  Klein 
Managing  Editor:  Jane  Bayer 
Assistant  Editors:  Steven  Schwartz, 
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Contributing  Editors:  Gahan  Wilson, 
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Design  Director:  Michael  Monte 
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Rod  Serling’s  The  Twilight  Zone  Magazine,  1982,  Volume 
2,  Number  3,  is  published  monthly  in  the  United  States 
and  simultaneously  in  Canada  by  TZ  Publications,  Inc., 
800  Second  Avenue,  New  York,  N.Y.  10017.  Telephone 
^12)  986-9600.  Copyright  ©1982  by  TZ  Publications.  Inc. 
Rod  Serling’s  The  Twilight  Zone  M^azine  is  published 
pursuant  to  a license  from  Carolyn  ^rling  and  Viacom 
Enterprises,  a division  of  Viacom  International,  Inc.  All 
r^hts  reserved.  Second-class  postage  paid  at  New  York, 
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accompany  all  unsolicited  material  if  return  is  requested. 
All  ri^ts  reserved  on  material  accepted  for  pumication 
unless  otherwise  specified.  All  letters  sent  to  Rod 
Serling’s  The  Twilight  Zone  Magazine  or  to  its  editors  are 
assumed  intended  for  publication.  Nothing  may  be 
reproduced  in  whole  or  in  part  without  written  permission 
from  the  publishers.  Any  similarity  between  persons 
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Subscriptions:  LJ.S.,  IJ.S.  possessions,  Canada,  and 
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Box  252,  Mt.  Morris,  II  61054.  Printed  in  U.S.A. 


I repeat  my  rave  here,  because  I 
think  there  is  a significant  correlation 
between  the  appeal  of  one  aspect  of 
sf  and  that  of  a certain  kind  of 
historical  novel,  the  kind  typified  by 
Aztec  or  by  Mary  Renault’s 
incomparable  recension  of  the 
Theseus  myth.  The  King  Must  Die. 
Both  Jennings’s  and  Renault’s  novels 
are  based  much  more  on  the  findings 
and  hypotheses  of  anthropology  than 
on  narrative  history,  written  records 
being  in  short  supply  for  both  pre- 
Homeric  Greeks  and  pre-Columbian 
Aztecs.  These  works  are  speculative 
in  the  same  way  that,  in  sf,  an 
internally  consistent  alien  ecology  or 
culture  must  be  speculative— with  the 
difference  that  the  historical  novelist 
does  have  sturdier  evidential 
foundations  for  his  inventions  and 
may  build  to  proportionally  greater 
heights  without  the  risk  of  Ws  whole 
edifice  collapsing  into  a picaresque 
jumble  of  unrelated  fancies.  Readers 
who  get  off  on  this  world-building 
side  of  sf  would  do  well,  the  next 


Books 

by  Thomas  M.  Disch 


T.  H.  White  is  the  author  of  one 
book  so  hugely  good  and  epochally 
successful  &at  ^ his  other  works 
seem  to  be  merely  the  harbingers  or 
the  echoes  of  that  central 
masterpiece— which  is,  of  course. 

The  Once  and  Future  King.  Reading 
’The  Maharajah  and  Other  Stories 
(Putnam,  $12.95)  is  therefore  a bit 
like  watching  Liza  Minelli  in  a 
remake  of  The  Wizard  of  Oz: 
comparisons  and  some  degree  of 
disappointment  are  inevitable.  No 
matter  how  good  some  of  these  tales 
may  be  (and  their  range  shades 
evenly  from  memorable  to  so-so), 
none  of  them  has  the  authority  of  his 
once-and-forever  retelling  of  the 
Arthurian  legends.  No  other  Arthur, 
Guinevere,  Lancelot,  Merlin,  or  « 
Mordred  can  hold  a candle  to 
White’s,  nor  is  there  another  mythic 
Merrie  England  that  can  measure  up 
to  his  Camelot.  His  colors  are  rich, 
his  focus  sharp,  and  his  compassional 
range  Shakespearean. 

What,  then,  did  he  lack?  Why  is 
there  only  the  one  great  book  and 
not  a shelf  of  them?  The  Maharajah 
suggests  one  answer:  he  lacked  a 
facility  for  dramatic  invention  (which 
was  not  a liability  in  the  Arthurian 
book,  for  obvious  reasons).  Again  and 
again  in  these  stories  White  will 
posit  a potentially  dramatic  situation 
and  then  provide  no  drama  or  one 
that  is  perfunctory  and  hackneyed. 

In  tales  of  ritual  or  predestinate 
inevitability,  as  in  “Kin  to  Love,”  an 
account  of  an  “ordinary” 
rape/mimder  and  the  subsequent 
“ordinary”  execution  of  the  criminal, 
this  lack  of  original  invention  isn’t 
bothersome,  but  when  it  has  the 
effect  of  laming  what  might 
otherwise  have  been  a masterpiece  of 
macabre  horror,  like  “The  Troll,” 
one  could  weep.  Even  though 
enfeebled  by  an  ending  as  traditional 
as  a banker’s  tie,  “The  Troll”  is  an 
object  lesson  to  anyone  who  aspires 
to  write  fantasy  of  hallucinatoiy 
believability.  Add  to  the  titles  ^eady 
mentioned  “The  Spaniel  Earl,”  a 
story  about  a seventeenth-century 
English  nobleman  traumatized  in 
early  childhood  to  believe  himself  a 
lapdog  and  indulged  through  his  life 
in  this  conviction,  and  you  have  the 
cream  of  the  collection.  No  more 


than  an  hour’s  reading,  even  if 
you’re  as  slow  a reader  as  I am,  and 
worth  making  out  a request  slip  for 
at  the  library.  But  for  your  own 
library  shelves  the  book  to  invest  in 
is  still  The  Once  and  Future  King. 

Or,  if  you’ve  already  read  that 
and  agree  with  me  as  to  its  merits, 
then  try  Aztec  by  Gary  Jennings 
(Avon,  $3.95).  When  I reviewed  the 
hardcover  of  Aztec  in  'The 
Washington  Post,  I called  it  “an 
historical  diorama  of  the  broadest 
dimensions,  a meditation  on  the 
human  condition  that  bears 
pondering,  and  a story  of  unfailing 
(if  variable)  power  to  bind  a spell.” 
Also:  “The  social  panorama  of  pre- 
Columbian  Mexico  that  we  view 
through  the  narrator’s  eyes  registers 
as  alien  and  credible  in  an  ever- 
accruing  multitude  of  humanly 
significant  details.  Aztec  deserves  to 
supplant  Prescott’s  The  Conqioest  of 
Mexico  as  the  Authorized  Popular 
Version  of  one  of  history’s  most 
awesome  confrontations.” 


i BOOKS 


time  they’re  threatened  with  famine, 
to  consider  Aztec  as  an  alternate 
source  of  epic  protein. 

I 

There  is  another  way  in  which 
the  sf  and  the  historical  imagination 
may  cross-fertilize,  and  that  is  in 
stories  of  time  travel  into  the  past. 
Since  Mark  Twain  invented  the  idea 
in  1889,  it  has  become  almost  a sub- 
1 genre  in  its  ovm  right.  The  drama  of 
’ time  travel  lies  in  the  collision 
I between  an  historical  civilization  and 
: a consciousness  formed  in  our  own 
time;  between,  as  well,  the  sense  of 
history  as  an  inalterable  fact  and  the 
effort  of  some  Connecticut  Yankee  to 
; make  his  mark  on  it— or  not  to,  if 
j the  time  traveler  observes  the 
; decorums  of  field  anthropology.  The 
I second  possibility  gets  around  the 
1 paradoxes  involved  in  introducing 
^microwave  mousetraps  into  the  court 
of  Charlemagne,  but  drama  is  harder 
to  come  by,  since  the  protagonist- 
' time  traveler  must  keep  such  a low 
: profile. 

All  of  this  preamble  to  explain 
r the  particular  excellence  and 
originality  of  Michael  Bishop’s  No 
Enemy  But  Time  (Timescape, 

$15.95),  a time-travel  novel  that  does 
it  the  hard  way  and  succeeds. 
Bishop’s  hero  is  bom  in  Seville  in 
1962,  the  bastard  son  of  Encamacion 
Ocampo,  a mute  Morisco  “whore  and 
i black  marketeer,”  and  a black 
; enlisted  man  in  the  Strategic  Air 
I Command.  Adopted  into  the  family 
; of  another  SAC  staff  sergeant,  he 
i becomes  John  Monegal  and  grows  up 
' in  a variety  of  stateside  Air  Force 
, bases.  The  milieu  of  career 
servicemen  is  one  that  Bishop,  an 
Air  Force  brat  himself,  knows  like 
the  back  of  his  hand,  and  his  novel 
shares  the  virtue  of  so  many  of  his 
best  stories  in  portraying  that  milieu 
realistically  and  sympathetically,  but 
without  the  Alamo  psychology  of  the 
School  of  Heinlein. 

Through  his  childhood  John 
Monegal  has  dream  visions  of 
Pleistocene  Africa,  and  as  a young 
I man  he  is  recruited  as  a time 
I traveler  to  that  era  and  area,  when 
i Homo  sapiens  was  only  a twinkle  in 
the  eye  of  the  apelike  Homo  habilis. 
The  core  of  the  story’s  sdence- 
; fictional  excitement  lies  in  John’s  life 
; as  an  assimilated  member  of  a tribe 
; of  habilene  himtsmen,  and  in  these 
I Pleistocene  chapters,  which  alternate 


in  a strict  A-B-A-B  pattern  with 
chapters  recounting  John’s  growing 
up.  Bishop  has  created  a vicarious 
treat  of  three-scoops-and-a-cherry 
dimensions,  a kind  of  Tarzan  for 
the  eighties,  based  on  sound 
paleontological  evidence  and  shrewd 
anthropological  extrapolation,  but  no 
less  fun  for  being  well  informed. 

The  remarkable  thing  about 
Bishop’s  book  is  that  the  story  of 
John’s  growing  up  through  the 
sixties  and  into  the  eighties  always 
holds  its  own  dramatically  against  his 
adventures  among  the  habilenes.  As 
in  Le  Guin’s  The  Dispossessed,  the 
alternating  time  schemes  are  tightly 
interlocked  so  that  present  and  past 
illuminate  and  elucidate  each  other. 

As  in  Benford’s  Timescape,  the 
chapters  set  in  the  recent  historical 
past  serve  as  a kind  of  litmus  test  of 
the  author’s  ability  to  tell  home 
truths  about  real  people.  The  clarity, 
sanity,  and  truthfulness  of  these 
essentially  “mainstream”  chapters 
give  the  author’s  more  imaginative 
flights  an  authority  and  verisimilitude 
all  too  rare  in  genre  sf.  Like  both 
Le  Guin  and  Benford,  Bishop  is 
determined  to  write  about  human 
goodness  without  resorting  to  the 
mock  heroics  of  formula  adventure 
stories.  There  are  no  villains  in  the 
book,  even  among  the  habilenes.  The 
central  and  absorbing  drama  of  the 
book  is  the  hero’s  growing  love  for 
the  pre-Rhematic  habilene,  Helen. 

(The  Rhematic  period  is,  according  to 
the  Oxford  English  Dictionary,  the 
first  period  of  specifically  hiunan 
history,  when  language  came  into 
being.)  Looming  behind  this  love 
story  is  a larger  theme,  the 
formation  across  the  entire  span  of 
history  of  the  Family  of  Man,  a 
phrase  that  becomes,  as  the  novel 
ripens  to  its  conclusion,  no  mere 
liberal  piety  but  a fully  realized 
dramatic  affirmation. 

'This  is  not  to  say  the  book  is 
flawless.  As  with  most  time -travel 
stories,  the  rationale  for  “how  it’s 
done”  is  embarrassingly 
unconvincing.  Better  to  offer  no 
explanation  than  one  that  leaks  this 
ba^y.  But  that’s  a small  exception  to 
take  to  a large  achievement.  After 
No  Enemy  But  Time  it  would  be  an 
insult  to  continue  to  speak  of  Michael 
Bishop  as  one  of  science  fiction’s 
most  promising  writers.  'The  promise 
has  been  fulfilled. 


A FREE  DRUGS!  EASY  SEX!  NO  JOB  HASSLES! 
t'  SOME  PEOPLE  JUST  DON'T  KNOW 

::  WHEN  THEY'RE  BEING  OPPRESSED! 


RUDY  RUCKER 

oufhor  of  fhe  acclaimed  WHITE  LIGHT 


Less  than  a year  ago,  in 
reviewing  Rudy  Rucker’s  White 
Light,  I wrote,  “White  Light  is  a 
good,  intelligent,  jjowerful  novel,  and 
the  most  auspicious  debut  in  the  sf 
field  since  . . . Well,  considering  it’s 
his  first  novel,  since  I don’t  know 
when.”  I was  wrong.  White  Light 
deserves  at  least  that  much  praise, 
but  it  was  not  Rucker’s  first  novel. 
Spacetime  Donuts  (Ace,  $2.50)  is  his 
first  novel,  and  it  saddens  me  to 
report  it’s  pretty  much  a dud.  Rucker 
and/or  Ace  Books  did  well  to 
withhold  it  from  publication  till  White 
Light  had  garnered  due  garlands 
—and  would  have  done  still 
better  to  have  consigned  it  to  the 
limbo  of  a file  drawer,  at  least  until 
Rucker  had  taken  the  trouble  to 
rewrite  from  scratch  the  last  one-half 
to  two-thirds  of  the  book.  It  starts  off 


well  enough  but  really  goes  off  the 
rails  around  page  seventy-five,  when, 
like  a dybbuk,  the  spirit  of  Chapter  | 
Twenty-Six-or-Bust  takes  control  of  | 
Rucker’s  speeding  fingers  and 
flagging  imagination. 

Chapters  one  through  nine  are  a | 
semi-fun  remake  of  Brave  New  World  ! 


as  filtered  through  the  consciousness 
of  a reader  of  Zap  Comix.  (Rucker 
lays  claim  not  only  to  a Ph.D.  in  math 
but  to  experience  as  an  underground 
cartoonist.)  There  are  too  many  stock 
figures— a forever-spaced-out  pothead 
who  is  never  without  his  identifying 


s 


reefer,  a standard-issue  all-too- 
absent-minded  professor— but  as 
compensation  iJiere’s  also  a good  deal 
of  zany  invention  and  viable  collegiate 
humor.  The  plot  curdles  as  Rucker 
brings  on  his  Big  Idea,  a joimney 
round  the  universe  by  “scaleship,” 
shrinking  to  subatomic  scale  and  then 
returning  to  a size-thirty  waist  via 
the  Extra  Large  sizes  of  the 
macrocosm.  It  might  have  worked  at 
novelette  length,  but  here  Rucker  is 
tripped  up  by  his  own  honesty.  He 
refoses  to  humanize  the  quarks  and 
black  holes  at  either  end  of  his 
universe,  and  so  the  wonder-journey 
proceeds  through  its  crystal 
landscapes  in  the  spirit  of  an 
educational  pamphlet.  (“And  this, 
children,  is  a Molecule!”)  I enjoyed 
the  same  ride  at  Disneyland  a whole 
lot  more.  Worse  yet,  the  scaleship’s 
journey  has  only  a tenuous  effect  on 
the  development  of  the  Rebels- 
Against-Utopia  plotline,  which,  when 
we  get  back  to  it,  collapses  upon  the 
author  like  an  act  of  God.  Passages  of 
hysterical  violence  alternate  with 
paragraphs  of  maundering 
psychologese: 

The  next  few  days  passed 
in  a flickering  of  wakefulness 
and  unconsciousness.  It  was 
hard  to  say  which  was  worse 
. . . When  awake,  Vernor  had 
the  pain  and  the  awful  guilt  to 
contend  with,  but  when  he  was 
asleep  these  elements  were 
incorporated  into  terrible, 
merciless  visions,  unlimited  in 
space  and  time. 

In  such  cases,  sleep  is  the  right 
choice.  Even  the  most  terrible, 
merciless  vision  is,  after  all,  limited  in 
space  and  time,  and  the  weariest 
novel  comes  to  an  end. 

The  Engines  of  the  Night 

(Doubleday,  $10.95)  so  candidly  asks 
to  be  censured  that  any  reviewer  is 
put  into  the  position  of  the  sadist  in 
the  classic  joke,  who,  from  a more 
refined  cruelty,  refuses  to  grant  the 
masochist  the  beating  he  begs  for. 
Rarely  does  a book  appear  that  is  at 
once  so  self-loathing  (one  of  the 
author’s  favorite  characterizations  of 
Itself)  and  so  self-serving  (a  subject 
on  which  he  is  more  reticent).  The 
publisher  abets  its  author’s  desire  to 
make  his  name  anatliema  by 
publishing  blurbs  from  two  colleagues 


who  evidently  disliked  the  book  as 
much  as  I did,  and  the  following 
equivocal  praise  from  Algis  Budrys: 
“Destined  to  be  misunderstood  and 
misused,  this  cry  from  the  heart  will 
prove  once  more  that  honesty  is 
suicidal.” 

I think,  on  the  contrary,  that  it’s 
destined  to  be  understood  by  anyone 
who  bothers  to  read  it  and  used  as  a 
cautionary  example  of  how  the 
practice  of  hack  writing,  too  long 
indulged,  can  sap  the  character,  warp 
the  judgment,  and  turn  to  jelly  the 
prose  of  writers  who  can’t  resist  a 
fast  buck.  The  author  (who,  as  a 
special,  Dantean  torment,  shall 
remain  nameless  in  this  review) 
would  seem  in  his  own  darker 
moments  to  endorse  even  the 
harshest  of  these  judgments,  but  he 
also  suffers  fits  of  megalomania 
when  he  insists  that  his  career  has 
been  peculiarly  congruent  with  the 
history  of  all  science  fiction,  and  that 
he  embodies  a kind  of  tragic  fate 
that  dooms  him  (and  all  science 
fiction)  to  mediocrity,  oblivion,  and  a 
pauper’s  grave.  He  loves  to  cover 
himself  with  ashes  and  tell  sad  tales 
of  the  deaths  of  writers,  such  times 
as  his  word  processor  isn’t  on 
automatic  pilot  and  churning  out 
such  portentous  piffle  as  this 
passage,  which  is  the  book’s  only 
gloss  on  its  title: 

Ah  but  still.  Still,  oh  still. 

Still  Kazin,  Broyard,  Epstein, 
Podhoretz  and  Howe;  grinding 
away  slowly  in  the  center  of  all 
purpose,  tiddng  us  to  the 
millennium:  the  engines  of  the 
night. 

(Those  names  are  the  critics  the 
author  feels  particularly  neglected  by, 
but  as  to  what  the  rest  of  that 
trans-syntactical  paragraph  may 
mean,  only  the  author  knows— and 
he’s  not  saying.) 

Does  this  seem  a mite  draconian? 
Well,  judge  for  yourself.  Here’s  a 
less  inchoate  example  of  the  author 
in  his  kvetching  vein,  with  pique  in 
control  and  self-pity  momentarily  in 
abeyance: 

. . . The  writer— the  experienced  ■ 
writer  in  any  event— knows  that 
most  editors  acquire  and  publish 
not  in  an  effort  to  be  successful 
so  much  as  to  avoid  failure. 
Defensive  driving.  They  seek, 
then,  that  which  they  consider 

} 


safe,  and  the  writers  who  are  at 
the  mercy  of  those  editors 
function  from  the  same 
motivation.  (It  can  be  presumed 
that  those  who  feel  or  function 
differently  find  it  almost 
impossible  to  get  their  work  into 
the  mass  market.)  . . . Science 
fiction,  like  all  commercial  fiction 
(and  quality  lit  too  although  in  a 
slightly  different  way),  can 
perhaps  be  best  understood  in 
terms  of  what  is  not  written 
rather  than  what  is.  Self- 
censorship controls.  Any  writer 
who  understands  this  at  all  will 
know  what  not  to  try.  As  good  a 
definition  of  professionalism  as 
any  other. 

If  that’s  professional,  how  would  you 
define  craven?  Such  pre-emptive 
surrender  to  the  “demands  of  the 
market”  is  all  the  more  reprehensible 
when  one  realizes  that  the  author  is 
a man  who  presently  makes  his 
living  by  selling  his  own  professional 
expertise,  pseudonymously,  to 
fledgling  writers. 

If  the  book  were  only  a “personal 
bitch”  (as  Alexei  Panshin  describes  it_ 
on  tile  back  cover),  it  would  not  be 
worth  even  this  much  notice,  but  it 
lap  claim  in  its  subtitle,  “Science 
Fiction  in  the  Eighties,”  to  have  a 
larger  subject.  The  claim  is  specious. 
As  a critic,  the  author  is  careless, 
ungenerous,  and  fainthearted.  He 
praises  the  work  of  his  friends  out  of 
proportion  to  their  merits,  especially 
that  of  Robert  Silverberg,  which  so 
often  echoes  the  author’s 
lamentations  on  the  futility  of  writing 
sf.  There  is  scarcely  one 
generalization  about  sf  in  the  book  to 
which  some  significant  exception 
cannot  be  made,  either  because  the 
author  practices  defensive  reading  or 
because  he  writes  faster  than  he 
thinks.  And  for  all  his  constant 
insistence  on  the  essential, 
inescapable  second-rateness  of  all  sf, 
he  never  has  the  guts  to  come  out 
and  say  that  any  particular  book  by 
any  particular  writer  is  bad.  Indeed, 
there  is  scarcely  a senior  member  of 
the  sf  establishment  that  isn’t 
kowtowed  to  at  some  pojnt  and 
scarcely  a junior  member  that  gets 
mentioned. 

All  in  all,  a shameful 
performance.  And  you  can  quote  that 
on  the  cover  of  the  paperback,  fg 


9 


o 


H 


R 


D I M E N 


I O N 


Screen 

by  Gahan  Wilson 


"Giving  conviction  to  such  lines  as  ‘Kwahl  En  kwahl’ " In  the  prehistoric  epic 
Quest  tor  Fire,  actors  Ron  Perlman,  Everett  McGill,  and  Nameer  El-Kodl— all 
appropriately  mode  up— appear  as  “honest-to-God  beetle-browed  cavemen." 


Quest  for  Fire 

(Twentieth  Century-Fox) 

Directed  by  Jean-Jacques  Annaud 
Screenplay  by  (Jerard  Brach 

Defying,  among  others,  the 
antievolutionist  Institute  for  Creation 
Research,  director  Jean-Jacques 
Aimaud  has  had  the  gall  to  show  us 
his  version  of  what  we  looked  like 
and  acted  like  some  eighty  thousand 
(count  ’em,  eighty  thousand)  years 
ago. 

Now  of  course  none  of  us,  or  at 
least  none  of  us  with  any  spunk, 
agrees  with  any  other  one  of  us  as 
to  how  it  was  back  then.  'The  aljpve- 
* mentioned  creationists  would  have  us 
neatly  and  cleanly  descended  from 
Adam  and  Eve  (though  there  are, 
even  in  this  tidy  thesis,  a few 
irritating  loose  ends  such  as  Lilith),  a 
depressingly  large  number,  I suspect, 
hover  around  the  theories  advanced 
by  Alley  Oop  and/or  One  Million 
Years  B.C.;  folks  like  you  and  me 
hold  vague,  widely-varying  theories 
lazily  based  on  our  faulty  and 
superficial  educations;  and  the 
experts— God  help  us!— bicker  in  the 
stratosphere. 

All  that  accepted  and  for  the 
nonce  nudged  to  one  side,  Qwest  for 
Fire  is,  without  doubt  or  quibble,  the 
most  carefully  planned,  most 
sincerely  approached,  and,  yes,  best 
movie  we  have  yet  had  on  those 
long-gone  ancients  who  tottered 
about  in  furs,  clumsily  setting  the 
stage  for  ourselves,  their  surprising 
descendants.  Its  makers  clearly  took 
the  whole  project  very  seriously,  and 
they  went  to  really  remarkable 
lengths  and  hired  all  sorts  of 
expensive,  cleverly  selected  people  to 
insure  that  the  film  would  feasibly 
represent  our  now-fossilized 
ancestors. 

They  hired  Desmond  Morris,  for 
instance,  author  of  The  Naked  Ape, 
etc.,  and  without  doubt  the  most 
famous  ex-Curator  of  Mammals  of 
the  London  Zoo,  to  work  out  the 
nonverbal  communications  that  the 
beings  of  eighty  thousand  years  ago 
might  have  hit  on.  Anthony  Burgess, 
who  built  a most  convincing  future 


English  for  his  Clockwork  Orange 
and  who’s  an  expert  on  James  Joyce 
and  many  other  strange  languages, 
was  hired  to  figure  out  how  they 
might  have  communicated  whilst  in  a 
verbal  mood. 

The  result  of  this  collaboration  is 
subtle,  touching,  and  convincing.  Mr. 
Morris’s  signals  can  be  read  by  us 
(as  he  pointed  out  in  an  interview,  it 
really  wouldn’t  have  been  very  bright 
to  make  them  incomprehensible  to 
the  twentieth-century  ticket  buyer), 
but  they  are  not  of  us.  They  are 
strange.  The  folk  in  Qwest  do  not 
nod  “Yes,”  but  give  a small, 
agreeing  bob;  they  do  not  shake  their 
heads  “No,”  but  avert  their  faces 
slightly  with  a kind  of  duck,  and  so 
on.  It  all  works  very  well.  Mr. 
Burgess  came  up  with  something  like 
one  hrmdred  words  of  a language 
that,  according  to  theory,  ccndd 
sound  more  or  less  like  Indo- 
European,  which  supposedly  was  the 
lingua  franca  back  in  those  good  old 
days.  It  soimded  perfectly  okay  to 
me,  and  I think  its  being  worked 
over  so  carefully  must  have  helped 
the  actors  considerably  in  giving 


conviction  to  such  lines  as  “Kwah! 

En  kwah!”  etc,  etc. 

The  movie’s  plot  is  decidedly 
science-fictiony,  and  I found  it  now 
and  then  somewhat  cumbersome  to 
my  going  along  with  its  fantasy.  It  is 
asking  a lot  of  someone  who  has  just 
quit  Sixth  Avenue  to  believe  he  is 
looking  at  honest-to-God  beetle- 
browned  cavemen;  it’s  asking  an 
awful  lot  more  of  him  to  have  him 
believe  that  these  cavemen  came  in 
contact  not  only  with  positively 
contemporary-looking  (albeit 
primitive)  types  which  anybody  from 
Akron,  Ohio,  with  his  American 
Express  card  in  order,  can  jet  to  and 
take  instant  photos  of,  to  his  heart’s 
content.  This  jarred  me,  at  first,  but 
I got  used  to  it,  and  in  the  end,  it 
gave  the  movie  some  of  its  best 
effects. 

On  the  whole,  by  and  large,  the 
film  is  quite  remarkably  credible.  You 
are  brought  into  it  gently,  into  the 
world  of  the  Cro-Magnon,  and  the 
mood  is  almost  riost^gic  at  first 
because  we  encoimter  all  sorts  of 
symbols  we’re  familiar  with.  It’s 
almost  like  something  we’ve  been 


10 


Photos  courtesy  Twentieth  Century-Fox 


[SCREEN  j 

, j 

' ' i 


I through  and  personally  remember. 

I There’s  the  foe,  for  one.  We  are 
; instantly  aware  of  its  preciousness, 

■ its  life-givingness.  It’s  being  lovingly 
; tended  by  a caveman  in  shaggy  fors 

• who  pokes  helpfully  at  its  warm  glow 
and  carefully  feeds  it  fresh  logs. 
Wolves  prowl  outside  its  light,  hating 
it.  One  darts  in  close,  snarling,  but 
the  caveman  tosses  a burning  stick 
at  the  creature  and  it  howls  off  with 
: a patch  of  flame  on  its  back.  We’re 
' safe  with  this  foe.  Nothing  can  get 
j us.  We’re  okay.  It’s  a great  feeling. 

Then  we  move  on  into  the  cave, 
and  there  they  are:  all  our  monkey 
grandfathers  and  grandmothers,  our 

■ simian  uncles  and  aunts,  sprawled 
and  snuggled  together  on  the  rocks, 
the  soles  of  their  feet  showing,  their 
eyes  shut  in  sleep  under  their  gorilla 
brows,  grunting  and  meeping  in  their 
almost  animal  dreams.  One  uncla 

i over  there  is  wincing  at  the  vision  of 
a saber-toothed  tiger  coming  too 
close;  another,  nearer,  is  smacking 
his  lips  over  the  taste  of  fat  meat; 
and  an  aunt,  without  waking,  is 
disposing  of  a louse  with  a pinch  of 
her  fingers. 

We  know  them  all.  It’s  easy  to 
recognize  them.  It’s  us,  without  the 
trimmings.  Before  we  got  smart. 
Before  we  wised  up.  It’s  the  super- 
rubes, the  innocents  we  sprang  from. 

This  affection,  once  achieved, 

' does  not  depart.  Throughout,  we  are 
i fond  pf  our  innocent  forebears.  We 
\ chuckle  affectionately  at  their 
i fumbles,  feel  a kind  of  fatherly  pride 
when  they  manage'to  pull  off 
something,  and  sigh  tenderly  at  their 
wistful  vulnerability.  They  are  so 
dumb,  these  sillies,  that  your  heart 
; can’t  help  but  go  out  to  them. 

The  plot  of  the  movie  is,  as  the 
I title  impUes,  a quest  for  foe.  Our 
^ grandfather  and  grandmother’s  tribe 
j loses  their  foe  and,  there  not  being 
I a working  Zippo  in  the  crowd,  three 
I heroes  are  chosen  in  the  hope  they 
I can  get  hold  of  some  and  lug  it  back 
: in  a great  little  Stone  Age  foe- 
I carrier  some  clever  prop  man  came 
i up  with.  The  heroes  are  an 
j intelligently  mixed  bag:  a handsome 
i type  (in  his  Cro-Magnon  way)  played 
I with  a touching  mix  of  bravery, 

' stoicism,  and  confusion  by  Everett 
' McGill;  a big,  lumpy  type, 
i trustworthy  but  not  the  swiftest, 

- played  by  Ron  Perlman;  and  a kind 
; of  dreamy  type  you  suspect  of 


"I  wouldn't  be  surprised  to  see  the  style  catch  on."  In  a tender  moment,  McGill 
and  leading  lady  Roe  Down  Chong  contemplate  the  full  mcon— arxl, 
symbolically,  the  future  of  man. 


". . . ever  egging  his  subjects  on  to  fresh  naughtiness."  The  goat-bearded  chief 
of  the  advanced  Ivaka  tribe  confronts  modem  Homo  sapiens  In  the  person  of 
Oscar-wInnIng  director  JearvJacques  Annaud. 


12 


"Maybe  wt  V/ng  that  fur  brought  It  all  back  to  them."  Elephants  In  costume 
mode  servlet,  ible  ma.'>todons  for  a touching,  rather  mystical  scene  between  man 
arxJ  beast. 


probably  being  the  smartest  of  the 
lot,  but  not  the  leader  material, 
played  quietly  and  very  well  by 
Nameer  El-Kadi. 

These  three  charsicters  encounter 
one  menace  after  another  in  their 
fire  pursuit,  and  eventually,  during  a 
rescue,  run  into  one  of  the  best  Cute 
Leading  Ladies  I’ve  seen  for  I don’t 
know  how  long.  She’s  Rae  Dawn 
Chong  (daughter  of  comic  Tommy 
Chong) . . . she’s  covered  all  over 
with  charcoal  marking  and  blue 
clay— and  that’s  all.  I wouldn’t  be 
surprised  to  see  the  style  catch  on  if 
this  movie  gets  a good  enough 
distribution,  Rae  Dawn  wearing  her 
blue  clay  and  ash  as  flatteringly  as 
she  does. 

The  relationship  h>etween  this 
woman  and  the  three  heroes  is 
possibly  the  nicest  thing  in  the  film, 
despite  my  earlier  comments 
regarding  the  unlikelihood  of  such 
historically  diverse  types  ever  having 
intercourse,  literally  or  otherwise, 
with  one  another.  The  byplay 


between  the  ape-men  and  the  Homo 
sapiens  female  is  excellently  handled. 
I think  my  very  favorite  moment  is 
Rae  Dawn  bursting  into  giggles  at  a 
funny  event,  looking  around  to  share 
the  laugh  with  one  of  the  heroes, 
and  realizing  that  none  of  the  poor 
ninnies  has  yet  developed  a sense  of 
humor.  They  just  don’t  know  there  is 
any  such  a thing  as  a joke,  and  so 
her  little  giggle  trails  off.  Excellent. 

Humor  is  very  present 
throughout  Qvsst  for  Fire,  and  it’s 
first  rate.  Some  of  the  best  comic 
louts  to  lurch  across  the  screen  are 
here  present,  including  a dandy 
clutch  of  fearsome  cannibals,  a swell 
group  of  bandits  who,  lurking  in  the 
forest,  are  undone— to  their 
astonishment— by  the  heroes’ 
technical  superiority,  and  a fine 
Neanderthal  with  remarkably 
insensitive  fingers. 

Rae  Dawn  Chong’s  tribe,  the 
Ivaka— which,  as  I say,  is  a little 
hard  to  believe  existed  in  the  same 
era  as  our  intrepid  heroes,  in 


particular  when  one  sees  this  tribe’s 
relatively  swanky  huts  and  decorated 
pottery— is  nonetheless  delightfully 
presented.  They  seem  to  be  a 
collection  of  jesters,  their  bodies 
cheerfully  painted,  their  leaders 
wearing  masks,  all  of  them  playing 
endless  humiliating  jokes,  chortling 
away,  having  a swell  time  enjoying 
the  foolishness  of  everything 
including  sex,  death,  and  pain.  They 
are  ribald  gagsters  all,  m^e  and 
female  alike,  and  they  seem  to  have 
no  respect  for  anything  whatsoever, 
unless  it’s  for  their  goat-bearded 
chief,  ever  egging  his  subjects  on  to 
fresh  naughtiness. 

'The  animals  are  nicely  handled,  if 
not  all  that  convincing  from  the 
standpoint  of  special  effects.  No  one 
seems  to  be  able  to  figure  out  how 
to  turn  a contemporary  lion  into  a 
saber-tooth,  and  the  producers  of 
Quest  are  no  exception.  They  give  us 
very,  nice  lions,  to  be  sure,  and  the 
scene  involving  them  is  rather  droll, 
but  saber- teeth  alone  do  not  a saber- 
tooth make. 

The  mastodons,  however— ah,  the 
mastodons!  Here  is  an  odd 
achievement  indeed.  They  are 
elephsmts  wrapped  in  shaggy  fur, 
and  at  first  glance  your  instinct  as  a 
blase  viewer  of  special  effects— you 
who  have  seen  dragons,  wise  green 
gnomes,  and  God  knows  what  else 
presented  in  such  superb  detail 
that  even  the  very  pores  seem 
authentically  alien— you,  very 
understandably,  can  be  excused  if 
you  snort  from  your  theater  seat 
at  these  transparent  shams.  A 
mastodon?  Hah! 

But  it  works.  I don’t  know  just 
how,  but  it  works.  It  may  be  due  to 
whoever  designed  the  wise,  patient, 
imdeniably  mastodon  eye  which  is 
tossed  at  you  in  closeup  at  crucial 
points.  Perhaps  it  is  the  elephants 
themselves,  stirring  under  all  that 
fur.  Maybe  wearing  that  fur  brought 
it  all  back  to  them,  the  recollection 
of  their  old  grandfathers  and 
grandmothers  and  aunts  and  uncles 
so  long  ago  vanished  from  upstate 
New  York  and  elsewhere,  now  only 
to  be  glimpsed  in  effigy  in  some 
museum.  Maybe  this  inspired  them, 
somehow  made  actors  of  them.  Who 
knows?  Whatever,  you  will  like  the 
mastodons.  Or  at  least  I hope  you 
will.  I certainly  liked  the  mastodons. 

In  fact,  I loved  them.  iS 


13 


OTHER  DIMENSIONS 


Music 

by  Jack  Sullivan 


This  column  is  devoted  entirely 
to  the  music  of  Dimitri 
Shostakovich  (1906-1975), 
the  greatest  symphonic  composer  of 
oiu"  time  and  easily  the  most  prolific 
composer  of  spectral  music. 
Shostakovich  wrote  an  extraordinary 
number  of  genuinely  dark  and 
nightmarish  works.  Indeed,  his  finest 
work  is  in  the  spectral  mode:  when 
he  tried  to  be  patriotic  or 
cheery— especially  in  his  ambivalent 
and  erratic  attempts  to  appease  the 
Soviet  censors— he  was  often  banal 
and  self-consciously  “uplifting.”  But 
when  he  let  the  lid  off  his  anxiety 
and  anguish,  he  poured  out  great 
musical  ideas  of  unsettling  power. 

Nowhere  is  this  phenomenon 
more  striking  than  in  the  Fourth 
Symphony  (1936).  This  gigantic  work 
begins  with  a brutal  march  and  ends 
with  an  ethereal  minor  chord  that  is 
sustained  by  the  lower  strings  for  six 
minutes  of  pure  gooseflesh.  The 
repeating  bass  figures  throb  like  an 
artery,  while  other  instruments, 
including  an  ascending  celesta  and  a 
muted  trumpet,  play  doleful 
fragments  as  the  chord  dies  away. 
Actually,  the  entire  piece  is 
fragmented,  a kaleidoscope  of 
disparate  ideas— some  gently  lyrical 
but  most  piercingly  dissonant— which 
appear  out  of  nowhere  and  vanish, 
without  development  or 
recapitulation.  Structurally  and 
harmonically,  this  is  the  most  original 
of  Shostakovich’s  symphonies; 
emotionally,  it  is  one  of  the  darkest. 

It  is  (fifficult  for  us  to  imagine 
how  “pure”  music— music  without  a 
text— could  conceivably  be  politically 
subversive.  Nevertheless,  Stalin 
apparently  felt  that  the  despair  and 
terror  exploding  through  this  work 
would  hardly  be  inspiring  to  the 
masses  or  would  hardly  represent  the 
official  image  of  life  in  the  Soviet 
Union  he  wished  to  project.  So  stem 
was  Soviet  censorship  that  the 
symphony  was  yanked  out  of 
circulation  on  the  eve  of  its  first 
performance  and  was  not  heard  imtil 
1961.  The  American  premiere  was 


given  by  Eugene  Ormandy  and  the 
Philadelphia  Orchestra  in  1963,  and 
the  Philadelphians  recorded  the  work 
the  same  year  (Symphony  No.  4, 
Ormandy,  Philadelphia  Orchestra, 
Columbia  MS-6459).  Still  in  print, 
this  is  one  of  the  most  thrilling 
recordings  of  Ormandy’ s career,  a 
mirror  image  of  his  desultory  efforts 
of  late.  Tempos  are  brisk,  attacks 
are  sharp,  textures  are  clear,  and  the 
orchestra  plays  with  great  passion 
and  intensity. 

The  Fifth  Symphony, 
Shostakovich’s  most  popular,  is  more 
conservative  than  the  Fourth— very 
deliberately  so,  for  Shostakovich  was 
desperate  to  get  off  Stalin’s  blacklist. 
Subtitled  “the  creative  reply  of  a 
Soviet  artist  to  just  criticism”  (a 
truly  nauseating  label),  the  Fifth  is 
conventionally  regarded  as  a “safe,” 
unchallenging,  classically  structured 
work  designed  to  make  Stalin  smile 
and  to  commemorate  the  October 
Revolution. 

It  has  always  struck  me  as 
being,  in  a sneaky  way,  considerably 
more  than  that.  Yes,  the  piece  does 
have  a rousing  finale  with  the 
required  “patriotic”  and  “optimistic” 
sound;  yes,  the  scherzo  is  folksy  and 


jocular,  if  a bit  caustic.  Survival  was 
indeed  Shostakovich’s  first  priority. 
Nevertheless,  he  got  away  with  more 
than  is  generally  acknowledged:  the 
greater  portion  of  the  symphony  is 
given  over  to  darkness;  including  the 
long,  gloomy  first  movement  (which 
ends  with  another  sustained  minor 
chord  embellished  with  a spooky 
celesta)  and  the  tragic  slow 
movement.  Even  the  finale  is 
interrupted  by  an  extended  wailing 
of  pain  from  discordant  strings 


before  the  requisite  “heroic”  ending. 
The  final  timpani  thwacks  in  that 
ending  still  sound  awesome  in  the 
famous  1959  Leonard  Bernstein 
recording,  especially  in  the  newly 
pressed  budget-piiced  reissue 
(Symphony  No.  5,  Bernstein,  New 
York  Philharmonic  Orchestra,  CBS 
MY-37218).  In  fact,  the  entire 
performance  has  a tautness  and 
conviction  that  no  recent  version 
surpasses.  Worth  looking  for  is  an 
exciting  out-of-print  Previn  version 
(London  Symphony  Orchestra,  RCA 
LSC-2866  OP). 

Fortunately,  Previn’s  later 
recording  of  the  Eighth  Symphony 
(Symphony  No.  8,  Previn,  London 
Symphony  Orchestra,  Angel 
S-36980)  is  still  available,  an 
overwhelming  performance  of  an 
expressionistic  work  that  once  again 
got  Shostakovich  in  trouble.  One 
would  think  that  the  tense  wartime 
atmosphere  of  1943  would  make  a 
musicd  depiction  of  brutality  and 
horror  acceptable  even  to  Stalin,  but 
such  was  not  the  case.  The  Eighth 
was  denounced  by  the  Party  as 
decadent  and  “formalistic,”  and  this 
gripping  symphony,  like  the  Fourth, 
was  hurled  into  oblivion  until  the  1960s. 


The  work  opens  with  a shuddery 
motif  deep  down  in  the  low 
strings— an  idea  reminiscent  of  the 
Fifth  Symphony  but  far  more 
ghoulish— which  sets  the  mood  of  the 
work.  The  first  movement  builds  to  a 
series  of  wrenching  explosions  for 
full  orchestra,  then  slowly  winds 
down  into  gloom  and  silence.  Two 
macabre  scheizos  follow  in  rapid 
succession,  the  second  exploding  into 
an  ugly  climax  for  brass  and  gongs 
which  introduces  the  long  slow 


Stmcturally  and  harmonically,  the 
Fourth  is  the  most  original  of 
Shostakovich's  symphonies; 
emotionally,  it  is  one  of  the  darkest. 


14 


movement.  In  this  ghostly 
passacaglia,  the  heart  of  the  work, 
the  low  strings  (Shostakovich’s 
favorite  tonal  color)  repeat  a sinuous, 
haunting  melody  some  dozen  times, 
while  delicate  woodwinds  whisper 
high  above  them.  For  spectral 
atmosphere,  this  astonishing 


movement  is  surpassed  in  music  only 
by  Shostakovich’s  own  deathbed 
works. 

Another  disquie  ting  piece 
withheld  for  years  I'rom  the  public 
was  the  First  Violin  Concerto. 


This  unusual  work  features  another 
introspective  passacaglia,  as  well  as 
an  incredibly  athletic  cadenza  for 
the  soloist.  The  most  chilling 
movement  is  the  first,  which  opens 
once  again  with  dreary  cellos  and 
double  basses,  over  which  the  soloist 
traces  solenm  figurations.  At  the 


movement’s  end,  the  muted  violin, 
determined  to  break  free  fi’om  the 
dark  murk  of  the  orchestra,  soars  as 
high  above  it  as  is  humanly  possible. 
Shostakovich  is  always  good  with 
endings,  but  this  one  is  truly 


breathtaking.  The  late  David 
Oistrakh,  to  whom  the  concerto  is 
dedicated,  manages  this  and  every 
other  difficult  passage  with 
tremendous  virtuosity  and  nobility 
(Violin  Concerto  No.  1,  Oistrakh, 
New  Philharmonia  Orchestra, 

Angel  S-36964). 

'The  Tenth  Symphony, 
Shostakovich’s  major  work  from  the 
1950s,  is  an  anomaly:  for  much  of  its 
epic  length,  it  is  sullen  and  gloomy, 
yet  despite  some  criticism  it  survived 
the  censors.  Was -its  survival  due 
simply  to  Stalin’s  death  the  year  of 
its  premiere  (1953)?  Or  did  it  survive 
because  the  jaunty  finale  embodies, 
to  quote  Yeats,  a case  of  “gaiety 
transfigurag  all  that  dread”?  One 
would  think  so  listening  to  Herbert 
von  Karajan’s  compelling  reading 
(Symphony  No.  10,  Karajan,  Berlin 
Philharmonic  Orchestra,  Deutsche 
Grammophon  DG-139020),  where  the 
twirling  woodvraid  theme  in  the 
finale  soimds  positively  magical.  For 


The  Eighth  was  denounced  by  the 
Party  as  decadent  and 
‘Jormalistic, and  this  gripping 
symphony,  like  the  Fourth,  was 
hurled  into  oblivion  until  the  1960s. 


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Address 


MUSIC 


With  the  Fourteenth  Symphony,  we 
move  into  the  final,  grimmest  phase 
of  Shostakovich's  career,  a phase 
given  over  almost  entirely  to 
contemplations  of  death. 


the  budget  conscious,  the  young 
Andrew  Davis  offers  a clean, 
conscientious  performance  (Davis, 
London  Philharmonic  Orchestra, 
Seraphim  S-60255),  if 
conscientiousness  alone  is  enough  in 
such  searing,  tragic  music.  One  hopes 
that  Previn,  the  most  eloquent 
Shostakovich  conductor,  soon 
get  to  the  Tenth. 

A decade  after  the  Tenth, 
Shostakovich  again  incurred  the 
displeasure  of  die  Soviet  regime,  this 
time  with  his  Thirteenth  Symphony, 
a choral  work  subtitled  “Babi  Yar” 
because  of  its  hellish  depiction  of  the 
massacre  of  200,000  Russian  Jews. 
The  authorities  objected  to 
Shostakovich’s  choice  of  text,  a set 
of  Yevtushenko  poems  condemning 
totalitarianism,  anti-Semitism  (clearly 
imputed  by  the  poet  to  Soviet  as 
,well  as  Nazi  regimes),  and  * 

censorship. 

In  this  work,  Shostakovich 
showed  that  he  could  write  great 
program  music.  “Fears  like  shadows 
slithered  everywhere,”  intones  the 
bass  soloist  in  a description  of  life 
imder  Stalin,  and  the  music 
itself— fearful,  shadowy,  and 
slithery— is  a perfect  embodiment  of 
the  text.  Ormandy  premiered  the 
work  in  America,  but  his  fine 
reading  doesn’t  quite  match  the 
shattering  account  by  Previn 
(Symphony  No.  13,  Previn,  London 
Symphony  Orchestra,  Angel 
SZ-3766). 

With  the  Fourteenth  Symphony 
(1969),  we  move  into  the  final, 
grimmest  phase  of  Shostakovich’s 
career,  a phase  given  over  almost 
entirely  to  contemplations  of  death. 
“What  Shostakovich  has  siunmoned 
musically,”  wrote  Rory  Guy  when 
the  Fourteenth  first  appeared,  “is  a 
direct  confrontation  wi&  death  as 
specter,  almost  medieval  in  its  dark 
and  fearful  intensity”  (Symphony 
No.  14,  Rostropovich,  Moscow 
Philharmonic  ()rchestra, 
Columbia/Melodia  M-34507). 

Like  its  predecessor,  the 
Fourteenth  has  a text,  this  time  an 
anthology  of  poems  about  death.  The 
symphony  opens  with  a desolate 
violin  solo  which  introduces  Federico 
Garcia  Lorca’s  “De  Profundis,”  an 
hallucinatory  vision  of  a huge 
graveyard  of  dead  lovers.  A violent, 
flamenco-flavored  motif  then  slashes 
its  way  through  Garcia  Lorca’s 


“Malaguena,”  a poem  which  depicts 
death  stalking  through  a Spanish 
tavern.  The  remaining  poems 
similarly  treat  death  as  a terrifying 
rather  than  consoling  reality.  'This  is 
Shostakovich’s  most  imcompromising 
symphony,  not  only  in  its  cosmic 
pessimism  but  in  its  direct,  angiy 
swipe  at  Soviet  tyranny  (“Rotten 
cancer  . . . horrid  nightmare  . . . 
mad  butcher,”  shouts  the  soloist). 

The  orchestration— for  strings, 
percussion  and  two  singers— is  spare, 
austere  and  full  of  unforgettably 
unearthly  effects.  The  most  telling  of 
these  comes  at  the  veiy  end,  when  a 
madly  galloping  dissonant  chord 
suddenly  shuts  off,  leaving  a terrible 
silence  and  emptiness  which  is  surely 
the  most  precise  evocation  of  death 
in  music.  “All  powerful  is  death,” 
chant  the  singers  just  before  this 
awful  moment: 

It  is  on  watch 

Even  in  the  hour  of  happiness 
In  the  world  of  higher  life  it 
suffers  within  us. 

Lives  and  longs 
And  cries  within  us. 

Composer  and  critic  Eric 
Salzman  recently  wrote  that  despite 
its  high  quality,  Shostakovich’s  late 
music  is  sometimes  too  “depressing.” 
Indeed,  the  listener  should  be  warned 
that  this  music  is  unremittingly 
bleak.  Especially  gray  and  ghostly 
are  the  unresolved  tnlls  in  the 
Sonata  for  Violin  and  Piano  (Sonata 
for  Violin  and  Piano,  Kremer, 
Gavrilov,  Columbia/Melodia 
M-35109),  and  the  bonelike  tapping 
and  rattlings  in  the  Thirteenth  String 
Quartet  (String  Quartet  No.  13, 
Fitzwilliam  Quartet,  Oiseau-Lyre 
DSLO-9). 

The  climax  of  this  movement 
toward  the  grave  is  the  Fifteenth 
String  Quartet  (1974),  Shostakovich’s 
farewell  to  the  world,  an  audacious, 
experimental  work  which  fittingly 


and  movingly  rounds  out  his 
controversial  career.  This  last  quartet 
consists  of  six  slow  movements  in  a 
row  (including  an  elegy,  a nocturne, 
a funeral  march  aad  an  epilogue), 
each  about  death,  each  utterly  black, 
and  each  filled  with  tremendous 
poetry  and  harmonic  originality.  It  is 
astonishing  that  such  a severe  work, 
one  so  obsessively  focused  on  a 
single  terrible  thing  and  with  only  a 
single  tempo,  can  also  contain  such 
richness  of  invention.  The  ideas 
range  from  infinitely  sad,  hymnlike 
melodies,  to  defiantly  jabbing  single- 
note crescendos,  to  deathly  silences. 
The  ending,  with  its  hollow  open 
chords  and  stark  atonal  trills,  simply 
vanishes  into  grayness,  suggesting 
the  fading  of  a heartbeat.  'The 
Taneyev  Quartet,  to  whom  this 
valechctory  work  is  dedicated,  plays 
with  a tenderness  and  affection  that 
only  slightly  soften  the  gloom  (String 
Quartet  No.  15,  T'aneyev  Quartet, 
Columbia/Melo^a  M-34527). 

Yet  gloom  is  by  no  means  the  only 
emotion  in  Shostakovich’s  late  music. 
As  Andrew  Porter  of  The  New 
Yorker  recently  pointed  out:  “In  one 
way,  the  Frick  re<dtal  was  a 
profoundly  depressing  occasion,  for  it 
compelled  one  to  think  about  the 
stricken,  unhappy  artist,  confiding  his 
sorrow  to  these  intimate  pages.  And 
in  another  way,  it  was  a profoundly 
inspiring  occasion— a manifestation  . 
that  the  human  spirit  is 
indestructible,  a de  profundis  from  a 
voice  that  could  not  be  silenced. 

These  works  contein  utterances  as 
moving,  as  poetic,  as  those  in 
despairing  Psalms,  and  are 
beautifully  wrought,  strangely 
imaginative  music.” 

Many  controversial,  experimental 
composers,  such  as  Bartok  and 
Schoenberg,  mellowed  in  their  later 
years,  but  not  Shostakovich.  He  did 
not  go  gentle  into  , that  good  night. 

Next  month:  Contemporary 
composers.  18 


OTHER 


DIMENSIO  NS 


Etc. 


wrote  it,  thanks  also  for 
the  interesting  accom- 
panying piece  on  the 
making  and  coming  of 
“Swamp  Thing.”  The  only 


Inspired  by  the  Gar- 
goyles of  Gotham  photo 
feature  in  our  February 
issue,  reader  Kevin  D. 
Shields  snapped  some 
gargoyle  photos  of  his  own 
on  a recent  trip  abroad. 
The  top  left  photo  (which 
he’s  entitled  “That’s  Right, 
Buddy,  Number  One!”)  and 
the  one  to  its  right  were 
taken  in  Helsinki;  the  bot- 
tom photo  (entitled  “I  Am 
the  Walrus”)  was  taken  fn 
Leningrad. 


UP  FROM 
HORROR 

TZ’s  Tom  Seligson 
recently  received  the 
following  letter  from 
director  Wes  Craven  (The 
Last  House  on  the  Left, 

The  Hills  Have  Eyes, 

Deadly  Blessing,  and 
Swamp  Thing),  whom  he 
interviewed  in  our 
February  issue.  Craven 
makes  such  an  interesting 
and  articulate  case  for 
himself  that  we  thought  his 
letter  worth  reprinting 
here: 

Dear  Tom: 

I’d  like  to  thank  you 
for  one  of  the  most  even- 
handed,  thorough  and  ac- 
curate interviews  ever 
printed  about  this  film- 
maker. And,  to  whoever 


thing  that  confused  me  in 
that  second  article  was 
the  question  “How  much 
I Craven  -will  a family- 
I oriented  film  based  on  a 
I comic  book  be  able  to 
I take?” 

\ 'That’s  a little  like 
I asking  “How  many 
brushstrokes  by  Joe  Blow 
iwill  a painting  by  Joe 
Blow  be  able  to  take?” 
The  answer  is,  just  as 
many  as  it  takes,  and  not 
one  more.  The  fact  is 
that  with  the  exception  of 
the  basic  Swamp  Thing 
character  and  setup,  the 
story  and  film  are  my 
creation — pure  Craven 
from  beginning  to  end. 
And  yet  when  this  film 
was  recently  tested  at 
Preview  House  in 
Hollywood  with  an  au- 
dience of  8-  to  18-year- 
olds,  the  response  was 
93%  good  to  excellent! 
That’s  how  much  they 
could  take.  And  love  it! 

I’m  really  not  blow- 
ing my  own  horn  so  much 
as  protesting  the 
unspoken  assumption 
leveled  towards  all 
writer/directors  who 
earned  their  film  wings 
by  working  inthe 
violence/horror  end  of 
genre  films:  the  assump- 
tion that  that  is  all  we 
can  do.  Far  from  it,  guys. 
We’re  all  just  getting 
rolling,  all  still  growing, 
and  we  all  have  a hell  of 
a lot  more  capability, 
laughter,  tenderness,  and 
intelligence  than  the  ways 
we  clawed  our  way  into 
the  system  allowed  us  to 
show.  At  least  not  show 
on  the  surface. 


6ARG0YLSKIS 


“Etc.”  is  a 

for  you,  the  readers.  We’re 
looking  for  pithy  views, 
provocative  quotes,  imusual 
photos,  weird  and  amusing 
newspaper  items  (please 
send  actual  clippings  for 
vertification),  surprising 
uses  in  the  media  of  that 
magic  phrase  “the  Twilight 
Zone,”  and  any  other 
tidbits  suggesting  that  the 


'Twilight  Zone  exists  right 
now  here  on  earth. 
Enterprising  readers  whose 
material  we  use  will 
receive,  along  with  our 
lasting  gratitude  and  an 
acknowledgement  in  these 
pages,  a snazzy  12”  x 18” 
poster  of  Maximilian,  the 
Tmlight  Zone  cat— just  the 
sort  of  thing  to  brighten 
even  the  most  miserable  day. 


i 


17 


! 


[etc. 


It  astonishes  me  it’s 
taken  so  long  for  it  to  be 
seen  that  the  best  “hor- 
ror” films,  though  sand- 
bagged by  ridiculously 
small  budgets,  have  Imen 
raised  right  back  up  by 
their  strong  visions,  and 
have  been  among  the 
most  free,  uncensored, 
ribaldly  funny,  and  telling 
films  made  in  America 
during  the  last  gasp  of 
the  20th  century. 

Horror  films  have 
allowed  us  survival  in  a 
sink-or-swim  marketplace, 
and  at  the  same  time 
allowed  us — by  both  their 
nature  and  the  nature  of 
their  young  audience — in- 
credible freedom  to  ex- 
plore far  beyond  the  fron-  : 

tiers  of  Establishment  | 

reality  and  morality.  Only 
in  horror  films  were  we 
free  to  howl  the  pain  and 
outraged  laughter  of  a 
generation  that  dared  to  | 

join  hands  and  dance  j 

with  its  parents’  worst  j 

nightmares,  all  on  the  i 

bloody  brink  where  we  j 

happen  to  have  been  | 

bom.  I 

That’s  not  a bad  i 

start,  do  you  think?  And  ■ 

when  you  see  “Swamp  | 

Thing,”  I hope  you’ll 
agree  that’s  exactly  what 
it  is:  just  the  beginning.  I 

Sincerely, 
Wes  Craven 


1« 


^ We  are  always  coining 
across  references  to  “the 
Twilight  Zone”  in 
newspapers  and  magazines, 
and  invite  readers  to  send 
us  interesting  examples. 


This  month’s  item  comes 
from  the  San  Francisco 
Chronicle  of  January  31, 
courtesy  reader  Jim 
Aschbacher. 


REQUIRED 

READING 

“So  far  as  I can  see, 
Blackwood’s  The  Willows 
is  the  ip'eatest  weird  story 
ever  written,  with 
Machen’s  The  White 
People  as  a close  second, 
and  wilh  things  like 
Shiel’s  Home  of  Sounds, 
Machen’s  Black  Seal  and 
White  Powder,  Chambers’ 
Yellow  Sign,  Poe’s  House 
of  Usher,  and  James’s 
Count  Magnus  as  good 
runneKi-up.” 

— H.P.  Lovecraft  to 
Wilfred  Blach  Talman, 
November  10,  1936 


STRAUD 

ON  sr 

“As  a kid  I was 
interested  in  science 
fiction,  but  now  I can’t 
read  anything  where  the 
people  have  funny  names, 
or  ‘Erlhor  got  up  in  the 
morning  and  put  on  his 
Illiath  and  walked  out  to 
the  plains  of  Gimm.’  I 
look  at  the  stuff  and 
think,  ‘Jesus,  that’s  easy, 
anybody  can  do  that.’  ” 

—Peter  Straub, 
interviewed  by  Tom 
'Gleddie  in  the  March 
Fantasy  Newsletter 


CALIING  AU 
CARfOONISTS 

Get  a gag  that’s  also 
ghostly,  weird,  super- 
natural, futuristic,  or  just 
plain  other-dimensionsd? 
Tunlight  Zone  is  now 
featuring  cartoons  (as  you 
can  see  by  this  page),  and 
we’ll  pay  $50  for  ea^  one 
we  use.  Send  submissions, 
enclosing  an  SASE,  to 
Cartoon  Editor,  TZ 
Publicjjtions,  800  Second 
Avenue,  New  York,  NY 
10017. 


“We  have  just  returned  from  a month-long  space 
flight  and  we  can  report  that  there  is  a dimension 
beyond  that  which  is  known  to  man.  It  is  a 
dimension  as  vast  as  space  and  as  timeless  as 
infinity.  It  is  the  middle  ground  between  light  and 
shadow,  between  man’s  grasp  and  his  reach.  It  is  an 
area  which  we  call  The  Twilight  Zone.  ” 


Collage  by  Marty  Blake 


SEARC^HING  FOR  THE  GREATEST  BAHER  IN  BASEBALL  HISTORY, 
HE  DISCOVERED  THE  DREADFUL  SECRET  OF  . . . 


In  January  of  1974,  a writer  named  Howard 
Gammill  was  interviewing  Goober  Talbot,  the 
old  outfielder,  in  a hotel  room  in  New  York. 
This  is  not  really  the  beginning  of  the  story,  but  it 
was  Gammill’s  first  inkling  there  might  be  a story. 
More  of  one,  anywEiy,  than  Talbot  could  tell  him. 

Talbot  had  once  led  the  National  League,  in 
batting,  but  that  had  been  during  the  Second  World 
War  when  most  of  the  better  hitters  were  in 
uniform;  in  later  years  Talbot  had  trouble  hanging 
on  as  a mere  pinch  hitter.  Unlike  most  of  the  old- 
timers  Gammill  had  interviewed  over  the  winter, 
Talbot  bore  no  grudge  toward  baseball.  “01’  country 
boy  like  the  Goob,”  Talbot  kept  saying  between  nips 
at  the  pint  of  rye  in  his  lap,  “jes  glad  he  got  to  play 
up  top  as  long  as  he  did.”  He  reposed  on  the  bed,  his 
shirt  imbuttoned  to  the  waist,  his  feet  up,  eyeing  the 
tape  recorder  as  if  he  had  never  seen  one  before. 
He  was  a fat,  nearly  toothless  hulk  who  bore  no 
resemblance  to  the  cherub  face  that  had  once 
adorned  bubblegum  cards.  No  more  than  sixty,  Gam- 
mill thought,  and  already  he’s  fallen  apart;  sad  the 
way  these  guys  let  themselves  go  when  they’re  done 
playing. 

Gammill’s  book  would  be  called  Day  of  Gold. 
Each  of  the  former  players  Gammill  was  interview- 
ing had  performed  a single,  solitary  super  feat  dur- 
ing an  otherwise  mediocre  career.  Gammill  didn’t 
much  care  for  the  tiook’s  title  or  the  idea  behind  it, 
but  his  editor  was  convinced  there  was  another  book 
or  two  to  be  mined  from  the  lode  Kahn’s  The  Boys  of 


Summer  had  uncovered  a few  years  back.  Gammill’s 
last  literary  endeavor  had  been  a string  of  folksy  in- 
terviews with  a dozen  5)itchers  who  had  faced  both 
Cobb  and  the  Babe.  It  had  sold  fifty  thousand  copies 
and  brought  him  some  recognition— but  not  the  kind 
the  men  in  his  book  had  enjoyed  in  their  day;  that 
would  forever  be  beyond  Gammill’s  reach.  Talbot 
could  look  back  on  his  former  glory— the  batting  ti- 
tle, fluke  that  it  was,  still  put  him  in  the  limelight  for 
a few  moments  now  and  then.  Gammill’s  book  would 
provide  yet  another  such  moment  for  Talbot,  and  he 
seemed  grateful  for  it.  Some  of  the  others— Hunne- 
field,  the  pitcher  who’d  lost  a Series  no-hitter  on  a 
broken-bat  single,  for  one— wouldn’t  agree  to  come 
to  New  York,  though  all  their  expenses  would  be 
paid  and  they’d  get  a grand  or  two  besides.  To  talk 
to  Hunnefield,  Gammill  had  to  make  a hideous  bus 
trip  from  the  Miami  airport  to  a sugar  mill  town  in 
the  Florida  interior.  Even  then  Hunnefield,  now  a 
foreman  at  the  mill,  wanted  Gammill  to  find  him  a 
job  in  baseball  as  his  price  for  talking,  and  when 
Gammill  couldn’t  promise  this,  the  interview  dis- 
solved into  a blast  at  the  game:  a ruthless  business. 
Can’t  find  room  for  an  old  star,  but  willy-nilly  pays 
millions  to  kids  fresh  out  of  Little  League  who  don’t 
even  know  how  to  hold  a runner  on  first  base  . . . 

Gammill  was  thirty-five  in  1974  and  still  in 
reasonably  good  condition.  In  college  he’d  once  gone 
three-for-four  against  a pitcher  who  later  won  twen- 
ty games  for  the  Red  Sox.  It  was  his  own  personal 
day  of  gold.  And  he  wanted  to  believe  that  he  could 


Browning’s  Lamps 


have  hit  in  the  major  leagues  if  he’d  had  the  chance. 
Oh,  maybe  not  .300,  but  at  least  a solid  .270  or  .280. 
Earlier  in  the  winter  he’d  let  this  fantasy  slip  out 
while  interviewing  Gusty  Gayles,  whose  twenty-nine 
saves  in  1953  still  held  a Cardinal  record,  and  Gayles 
had  laconically  said,  “Try  .080,”  and  then  led  him 
into  a field  back  of  the  Gayleses’  homestead.  It  had 
been  a raw  day  in  November  and  Gammill  had  wor- 
ried about  the  bat  stinging  his  hands  when  it  made 
contact,  but  Gayles,  at  fifty-four,  still  had  a slider 
that  was  so  wicked,  Gammill  had  all  he  could  do  to 
scratch  out  a couple  of  weak  ground  balls. 

That,  rationally,  should  have  been  the  end  of 
it.  The  sensible  man  would  have  resigned  himself  to 
writing  about  baseball,  realizing  that  was  about  as 
close  as  he  could  ever  hope  to  come  to  the  game,  but 
Gammill  knew  that  for  him  there  could  be  no  easy 
end  to  the  dream.  The  five-year-old  who  had  stood 
up  in  front  of  his  kindergarten  class  and  announced 
he  was  going  to  be  a ballplayer  had  become  a thirty- 
five-year-old  who  would  gladly  trade  all  the  glowing 
reviews  that  Day  of  Gold  would  bring  to  see  his 
name,  just  once,  in  a major  league  box  score.  So  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  get  into  something  else  as  soon 
as  he  finished  the  book.  Talking  to  men  like  Talbot 
only  rubbed  salt  where  the  skin  was  still  too  thin.  He 
was  worried  that  Talbot  could  sense  this.  That  was 
perhaps  why  Talbot  kept  gloating,  “A  man  that’s 
played  in  the  big  leagues,  he’s  done  something 
proud.” 

“No  regrets?”  Gammill  said. 

“Exceptin’  maybe  that  the  Goob  ain’t  around 
for  this  designated  hitter  gimmick.  01’  Goob  coulda 
had  another  bat  title,  he  didn’t  have  to  go  out  to  the 
field  and  make  a clown  of  hisself.” 

“You  did  all  right  all  those  years  as  a pinch 
hitter.” 

“Once  a game.  That  was  all  the  Goob  could 
swing.  Shoot,  hardly  enough  to  get  the  blood  warm.” 

“Who  do  you  think  the  best  pinch  hitter  you 
ever  saw  was?  Besides  yourself,  of  course.” 

In  bringing  the  pint  bottle  up  to  his  mouth, 
Talbot  paused  to  wag  his  head  self-effacingly.  “The 
best?  Naw,  that  wadn’t  ol’  Goob.  Goob  was  good  all 
right,  but  there  was  better.” 

“For  instance?” 

“Waahl,  guy  down  in  one  of  those  cotton- 
pickin’  leagues  ol’  Goob  played  in  when  he  was  no 
more’n  a taddy.  Guy  you  prob’ly  never  heard  of. 
Pless.  Pinch  Pless,  they  c^led  him.  Worst  glove 
ever,  couldn’t  catch  a pea  in  a bushel  basket.  Made 
ol’  Goob  look  like  DiMaggio  out  there  in  the  pasture 
—but  stick  a bat  in  his  hand,  man,  that  sucker  coulda 
hit  a apple  seed  blowed  off  a bam  roof.” 

In  such  ways  do  writers  learn  there  are  stories 
better  than  the  one  they  are  telling.  Listening  to  the 

24 


tape  of  the  interview  later,  Gammill  heard  the  catch 
in  his  voice  when  he  asked,  “Wliat  league  was  this, 
do  you  remember?” 

“Somewheres  down  there  in  ’Bama  or  Ken- 
tuck.  Maybe  Tennysee.  Played  in  those  dogpatch 
leagues  a lotta  years  before  the  PhUs  took  attention 
that  ol’  Goob  was  always  good  for  his  .350.  You 
oughta  look  up  the  Goob’s  complete  record 
sometime.  It  w^n’t  jes  those  eight  years  in  the 
majors.” 

But  Gammill  wasn’t  interested  in  the  Goob  any 
longer.  Somewhere,  in  one  of  his  talks  with  the  old 
pitchers,  he  seemed  to  recall  the  mention  of  Pless,  a 
few  seconds  on  the  order  of  “ . . . toughest  hitter  I 
ever  faced,  tougher  even  than  Cobb,  was  back  in  the 
bushes.  Little  tubby  guy  named  Pless.  Never  even 
made  it  up  to  A ball,  from  what  I remember,  because 
there  was  no  place  he  could  play  in  the  field  where 
he  wouldn’t  kill  himself.  But  Christ!  Best  pure  hitter 
you  ever  saw!”  Gammill  hadn’t  even  included  this  bit 
of  memorabilia  in  his  book,  or  rather  he  had,  simply 
recording  ever3dhing  verbatim  and  then  letting  his 
editor  weed  out  what  didn’t  seem  of  interest.  He’d 
been  very  lazy  in  his  approach  to  that  book,  and  he’d 
been  going  along  about  half  asleep  on  this  one,  too. 
But  he  was  waking  up;  the  second  reference  to  Pless 
triggered  a nerve  at  the  back  of  his  mind. 

He  wondered  if  Talbot  remembered  the  exact 
year  he’d  played  against  this  Pless.  Talbot  thought  it 
was  the  early  thirties,  after  taking  a moment  to  gaze 
at  the  ceiling  as  if  calculating  something.  His  true 
age,  probably,  as  opposed  to  his  baseball  age. 

“Say  ’31  or  so?”  Gammill  heard  his  own  voice 
on  the  tape  straining  to  sound  mild. 

“A  whDe  before  the  war,  anyway,”  Talbot 
said.  He  sounded  tired.  Small  wonder— the  pint  bot- 
tle had  been  empty  by  then,  ard  he’d  dragged  his 
suitcase  from  under  the  bed,  looking  for  another. 
Getting  off  the  bed  to  shake  hands  when  Gammill 
was  leaving  proved  embarrassing  to  both  of  them. 

The  next  morning  Gammill  r.an  through  his 
taped  talks  with  the  old  pitchers  until  he 
found  the  one  he  wanted.  The  description  of 
Pless  was  about  as  he’d  remembered  it,  and  there 
was  an  odd  lilt  in  the  pitcher’s  voice,  as  if  the 
memory  brought  him  pleasure.  Every  player  wanted 
to  believe  he’d  been  up  againsi;  the  best  at  some 
point,  so  perhaps  this  Pless  really  was  something. 
Still,  Gammill  was  prepared  for  a disappointment 
when  he  started  digging  through  old  Baseball 
Guides.  It  was  too  hard  to  believe  Pless  could  have 
been  much  good  and  still  been  buried  all  those  years 
in  the  lower  minors.  Gammill  wels  browsing  through 
the  final  averages  for  the  Smokey  Mountain  States 
League  in  the  1932  edition  when  he  came  across 
Pless  for  the  first  time.  Pless  was  listed  by  his  full 


“Guy  you  prob’ly  never 
heard  of.  Pinch  Pless, 
they  called  him. 

Worst  glove  ever,  couldn’t 
catch  a pea  in  a bushel 
basket.  Made  ol’  Good 
look  like  DiMaggio 
out  there  in  the  pasture— 
but  stick  a bat  in 
his  hand,  man,  that  sucker 
coulda  hit  a apple  seed 
blowed  off  a barn  roof.’’ 

name,  as  was  the  Guide’s  custom:  “Pless,  Walker 
B.”  Scanning  the  page,  he  took  in  Pless’s  statistics 
unbelievingly;  in  108  at  bats  Pless  had  accumulated 
forty-nine  base  hits  and  fourteen  homers.  In  the  en- 
tire league  only  one  other  player,  someone  named 
Rice  who’d  batted  over  400  times,  had  more  homers 
and  no  one  was  within  a hundred  points  of  Pless’s 
.454  average.  Delving  farther  back,  he  discovered  in 
1928  Pless  had  hit  an  astounding  .483  with  twenty- 
six  homers  in  less  than  200  at  bats.  Over  the  course 
of  that  season  Pkiss  had  managed  to  play  enough 
games  in  the  outfield  to  have  his  fielding  average 
listed  too;  it  was  actually  lower  than  his  batting 
average  and  looked  so  absurd— thirty-five  errors  and 
only  twenty-eight  put  outs— that  Gammill  would  have 
been  sure  it  was  a misprint  if  he  hadn’t  recalled 
Talbot’s  “ . . . coddn’t  catch  a pea  in  a bushel 
basket.” 

He  picked  up  a paper  and  pencil  and  began 
making  columns  of  Pless’s  batting  achievements,  go- 
ing all  the  way  back  to  1921.  When  he  had  finished 
be  caught  his  breath.  Pless  had  an  average  in 
organized  baseball  of  .447  and  once  had  led  the 
Bluegrass  League  in  homers  and  triples  despite  hav- 
ing fewer  than  100  at  bats.  His  incompetence  in  the 
field  had  kept  him  from  ever  moving  out  of  the  lower 
minors,  apparently.  It  was  a different  game  then.  No 
club  wanted  only  lialf  a player.  Smead  Jolley,  who 
hit  a ton  everywhere  he  went,  was  ultimately 
squeezed  out  of  the  majors  because  of  his  fielding 
mishaps,  and  the  Cubs  had  once  dropped  a player 
named  Babe  'Twombley  after  he  hit  .377.  You  still 
had  to  wonder,  though,  if  there  weren’t  more  to  the 
story:  a drinking  problem,  or  perhaps  some  bizarre 
physical  defect  like  that  Pete  Gray  who’d  played  with 
only  one  arm. 


Gammill  placed  an  ad  in  The  Sporting  News, 
requesting  anyone  with  knowledge  of  the  where- 
abouts of  Walker  B.  Pless,  nicknamed  “Pinch,” 
former  minor  league  slugger,  to  write  to  him.  For  a 
month  after  the  ad  ran,  he  checked  his  mail  each  day 
but  without  any  real  hope  anything  would  come  of  it: 
Pless  had  played  too  long  ago;  he’d  probably  been 
dead  for  years.  One  morning,  however,  an  envelope 
came,  bearing  a postmark  that,  near  as  Gammill 
could  make  out,  was  of  a town  in  Kentucky  that 
began  with  “G.”  In  the  envelope  was  a single  sheet 
of  cheap  tablet  paper  with  a few  pencil-scrawled 
lines  on  it.  The  gist  seemed  to  be  that  the  writer  had 
once  been  a teammate  of  Pless’s.  “You  ever  get 
down  to  Gloam,”  Gammill  was  told,  “just  come 
around  the  general  store  in  the  day.”  The  signature 
was  unreadable,  and  there  was  no  return  address. 
Gammill  found  Gloam  in  the  atlas;  it  was  about  a 
hundred  miles  south  of  Louisville,  which  meant 
another  miserable  bus  ride,  and  on  top  of  it  the  ex- 
penses for  the  trip  would  have  to  come  out  of  his 
own  pocket.  What  could  he  tell  his  editor?  “Nobody 
wants  to  read  about  a guy  who  never  even  made  it 
out  of  Class  C,”  the  editor  would  say. 

He  got  to  Gloam  late  on  a Wednesday  after- 
noon. The  writer  in  him  tried  to  feel  on  the  verge  of 
a story,  but  the  dryness  and  shaking  in  his  hands  felt 
more  like  the  day  he’d  gone  into  the  field  with  Gusty 
Gayles.  Gloam  had  thr^e  stores  and  he  started  with 
the  one  that  looked  the  least  prosperous,  following 
the  principle  that  had  carried  him  through  most  of 
his  literary  enterprises:  when  in  doubt  as  to  which 
way  to  point  your  nose,  seek  the  smell  of  failure. 

An  old  man  in  a flannel  shirt  was  behind  the 
counter.  Gammill  watched  him  a while  from  the 
doorway.  There  were  several  customers  in  the  store, 
but  the  man  paid  little  attention  to  them.  His  eyes 
seemed  to  be  focused  on  something  in  his  mind.  He 
had  a frail,  wizened,  stooped  profile— nothing  about 
it  to  suggest  an  erstwhile  ballplayer.  Still,  Gammill 
sensed  that  this  was  his  man.  Nearly  all  the  ex- 
ballplayers he  had  interviewed  had  those  turned- 
inward  eyes,  as  if  the  only  events  that  mattered 
were  memories.  He  approached  the  counter  with  the 
letter  in  his  hand.  The  man’s  eyes  remained  out  in 
space.  Gammill  saw  that  the  flesh  on  his  face  and 
neck  himg  in  loose  folds,  as  if  it  had  once  encased 
the  head  of  a much  heavier  man,  and  he  knew  then 
(“  ...  little  tubby  guy”)  that  he  was,  in  all  proba- 
bility, looking  at  Pless  himself. 

He  stood  at  the  counter,  waiting  for  the  man 
to  focus  his  eyes  on  the  present.  After  the  better 
part  of  a minute  the  man  turned  and  started  to  move 
off.  So  there  was  nothing  for  Gammill  to  do  but 
speak.  “Mr.  Pless?  Walker  Pless?” 

For  an  instant  the  man  appeared  to  be  star- 
tled. Then  GammDl  saw  his  shoulders  steady  and 
■\l  2S 


Browning’s  Lamps 


straighten,  a movement  that  Gammill  took  to  mean 
he  would  not  be  caught  out  so  easily.  “Who’re  you?” 
the  man  said  flatly. 

“Howard  Gammill.”  Gammill  held  out  the  let- 
ter. “It  said  I’d  find  you  in  the  general  store.” 

“Lemme  look.”  The  man  took  the  letter, 
pressed  it  flat  on  the  coimter,  then  stood  well  back 
as  if  he  needed  the  extra  distance  to  see.  “Uh  huh 
...  I remember  this.  Thing  in  The  Sporting  News 
said  if  anybody  knew  Pless.  I knew  Pless.” 

“Matter  of  fact,”  Gammill  said  matter  of  fact- 
ly,  “you  are  Pless,  aren’t  you?” 

The  man  laughed  in  a short,  humorless  way,  as 
if  he  were  being  polite.  “People  hereabouts  call  me 
Carter.  Joe  Carter.” 

“But  you  played  as  Walker  Pless.”  If  Gammill 
had  learned  anything  as  a writer,  it  was  how  to 
persist. 

The  man  laughed  again  and  shrugged  slightly. 
“When  I played  as  anybody.” 

“Look,  I just  want”— Gammill  shot  a sharp 
glance  over  his  shoizlder— “I  mean,  can  we  go 
someplace  where  we  can  be  alone?”  he  said  more 
quietiy. 

“Here’s  good  enough.” 

“All  right,  then,  what  I want  to  do  is  talk  to 
you  about  your  tremendous  hitting  ability.  I mean 
you  had  some  of  the  highest  averages  in  the  entire 
history  of  baseball.”  He  was  conscious  that  Pless’s 
eyes  were  fixing  on  him  now.  “There’ll  be  some 
money  in  it,  of  course.  Several  hundred  dollars.” 

“Don’t  care  about  money.  Store  brings  all  I 
need.” 

That  was  either  a lie  or  else  Pless  had  the 
skimpiest  needs  humanly  possible.  “Well,  will  you 
agree  to  just  talk  to  me,  then?” 

“It’s  what  we’re  doing.”  Dry  as  Pless’s  words 
were,  his  tone  held  no  hint  of  irony.  Everything  was 
being  said  in  the  same  flat  voice. 

“The  question  in  my  mind  is  why  you  never 
made  it  out  of  Class  C.  It  must  have  made  you  a lit- 
tle bitter  to  post  those  fantastic  averages  year  after 
year  and  never  move  up.” 

“No  place  I could  move.  There  wasn’t  such  a 
thing  in  those  days  as  a man  could  just  pinch-hit. 
Johnny  Fredrick,  Red  Lucas,  Sheriff  Harris— they  all 
had  a position  to  play.” 

“How  was  it  that  you  were  such  a terrible 
fielder?  It  would  seem  you  could  have  learned,  like 
you  learned  to  hit.” 

“Nothing  to  learn  there.  Hitting  came  natural. 
Playing  in  the  field,  running  them  bases,  just 
couldn’t  ever  pick  it  up.  Tried,  hell— Christ,  did  I 
try,  but  it  wovddn’t  come.” 

“Tot  Pressler  said  you  were  the  toughest  bat- 
ter he  ever  pitched  to.  Even  tougher  than  Cobb.” 

“They’d  say  the  same  thing  now,  I was  play- 


ing. Nobody  around  could  get  me  out  steady.  Getting 
down  to  first  base,  though,  that’d  be  something  else. 
I’d  have  to  hit  it  out  to  the  v/all  even  to  get  a 
single.” 

“You’re  telling  me  you  could  still  hit?” 

“For  damn  sure.  Maybe  nothing  what  I did 
when  I was  younger  and  had  more  shoulder,  but 
near  .300  anyway.” 

Gammill  had  heard  things  like  this  before  from 
other  old-timers,  outrageous  protestations  that  even 
at  seventy  they  could  play  the  game  as  well  as  the 
kids.  Usually  he  had  to  restrain  himself  from  grin- 
ning, but  now  he  felt  his  whole  body  undergo  a 
peculiar  tightening.  Pless’s  eyes  held  a dark  and 
steady  light  in  their  centers.  The  rest  of  the  man 
looked  ordinary,  even  a little  below  ordinary;  his 
shoulders  drooped  so  much  they  almost  touched  the 
counter,  and  his  pipe-stem  arms  didn’t  look  strong 
enough  to  hold  a bat,  much  less  s^ving  one.  But  those 
eyes  looked  as  if  they  might  contain  something 
special.  “Hornsby  always  used  to  make  claims  like 
that,”  Gammill  said  invitingly. 

“Hornsby  was  good,  but  I was  better.  Still 
d>m* 

“Come  on.  You  must  be  over  seventy.  You 
mean  to  tell  me  you  could  hit  Ryan,  Seaver,  all  those 
hard-throwing  kids  they  have  now?” 

“Satch  Paige  threw  as  hetrd  as  any  of  ’em. 
Two  years  ago  he  came  through  here  and  I had  a lit- 
tle get-together  with  him  out  on  the  high  school 
field.”  Pless’s  mouth  made  an  effort  to  smile  natural- 
ly, but  it  escaped  into  an  old  man’s  nervous  quiver- 
ing of  the  lips.  “About  five  pitches,  Satch  gave  up. 
‘Never  could  get  one  by  you,’  he  said;  ‘never  will.’  ” 

“Paige  must  be  nearly  seventy  himself.” 

“Still  throws  mean,  though.  Legs  ain’t  there  to 
give  him  much  follow-through,  but  the  ball  still 
comes.” 

They  had  arrived  at  a juncture  where  GammUl 
could  no  longer  deny  his  motives  for  coming  there. 
Still,  he  had  to  pretend,  if  only  to  himself,  that  he 
wasn’t  taking  any  of  this  seriously.  I’m  not  from 
Missouri,  Mr.  Pl^s,  but  you’re  still  going  to  have  to 
show  me  was  the  sort  of  thing  he  wanted  to  say, 
light  but  to  the  point.  Instead  he  found  himself  com- 
ing out  with  it  like  a kid  would,  as  a challenge.  Pless 
irritated  him,  under  all;  it  was  tliat  damn  could-not- 
care-less  attitude,  as  if  he  knew  how  helplessly 
Gammill  was  his  captive. 

“I’m  not  Paige,”  Gammill  said,  “but  I still 
remember  how  to  throw  what  used  to  be  a pretty 
fair  nickel  curve.  Go  you  any  amount  from  a beer  to 
the  price  of  a month’s  supplies  for  your  store,  that 
you  can’t  hit  anything  off  me  but  air.” 

Pless  could  easily  have  laughed  this  off,  but 
Gammill  had  begun  to  sense  that  the  man,  for  his 
own  reasons,  was  a captive  here  no  less  ’ than  he. 


26 


“Not  much  good  light  left,”  Pless  said.  “Don’t  get 
dark  till  around  six,  but  the  old  windows  never  did 
like  them  shadows.  So  you  get  back  here  in  under  a 
hour  with  your  gear,  and  maybe  we’ll  have  us  time 
for  a few  swings.” 

“I’m  ready  now.  My  glove’s  in  the  car,  along 
with  a bat  and  a couple  of  balls.” 

“Need  more’n.a  couple.  Field  here’s  got  a 
crick  running  back  of  right  field.  Good  lefty  batter’s 
gonna  hit  a few  out  in  it.  Can’t  be  helped.” 

“I’ll  take  my  chances.” 

“Waste  of  time,  two  balls.  Nobody  out  there 
shagging,  they’ll  roll  in  the  crick  first  two  swings. 
You  get  yourself  down  to  the  sporting  goods,  get  a 
good  dozen  or  so.  Maybe  dig  up  a kid  to  chase.  Meet 
me  out  to  the  field  in  a hour.” 

Two  boys  were  on  the  high  school  field  knock- 
ing flies  when  Gammill  got  there.  For  a coin 
or  two  they  probably  would  have  agreed  to 
shag  for  him,  but  instead  he  gave  them  each  five 
I dollars  to  go  home.  Whatever  was  going  to  happen 
‘ here,  he  wanted  no  witnesses  to  it.  Besides,  the 
' creek,  at  a glance,  looked  about  four  hundred  feet 
. from  the  plate.  He  sat  on  the  grass  beside  the 
backstop,  waiting  for  Pless  to  come  along.  In  his  lap 
^ was  a Louisville  Slugger,  Hank  Aaron  model,  and  a 
I gloveful  of  new  balls,  American  League,  Joe 
Cronin’s  signature  on  them.  Pless  didn’t  get  there 
until  after  five  o’clcek;  he  took  a squint  at  the  sun 
down  low  behind  third  base  and  said,  “Got  about  ten 
pretty  fair  minutes.  Couldn’t  find  no  shaggers,  eh? 
Well,  get  yourself  ready  to  do  some  chasing  out 
yonder.” 

' Pless  was  weEiring  the  same  flannel  shirt  and 
trousers  he  had  on  in  the  store.  Other  than  rolling  up 
his  sleeves,  he  made  no  preparations.  He  merely 
■ picked  up  the  Aaron  bat,  hefted  it  two  or  three 
times,  then  shambled  toward  the  plate. 


“Stick  okay?”  Gammill  said.  He  had  rather  ex- 
pected Pless  to  bring  his  own  bat  and  himself  to 
have  to  go  through  some  shenanigans  to  check  that 
it  wasn’t  loaded  or  coated  with  nails  or  some  such 
thing. 

“It’s  wood,  ain’t  it?”  Pless  was  setting  himself 
in  the  open  stance  of  a slugger.  On  him,  though, 
with  the  stick  arms  and  baggy  clothes,  it  looked  like 
a scarecrow  turned  sideways. 

Gammill  would  have  liked  a few  warm  up 
pitches,  mainly  to  make  certain  of  his  control  so  he 
wouldn’t  bean  Pless,  but  he  felt  ridiculous  not  being 
ready  when  Pless,  more  than  twice  his  age,  obviously 
was.  Looked  impatient,  in  fact.  He  kept  hefting  the 
bat,  then  stepping  out  of  the  box  to  rub  his  eyes  and 
take  a fresh  squint  toward  third  base  with  them 
while  Gammill  toyed  with  the  mound. 

Satisfied  at  last  with  the  footing,  Gammill 
went  into  a perfunctory  windup  and  delivered  a 
medium-range  fastball  belt  high.  Pless’s  eyes  seemed 
to  bug  out  of  his  head  and  his  arms  to  quiver  like  jel- 
ly before  he  managed  to  launch  the  bat  in  a kind  of 
schoolgirl  swing,  but  the  result  so  stunned  Gammill 
that  he  felt  his  own  eyes  widen  to  their  full  size.  The 
noise— bat  against  ball— made  his  eardrums  tingle, 
and  peeling  his  head  over  his  shoulder,  he  was  just  in 
time  to  see  a hectic  blur  ripple  the  underbrush  that 
separated  the  creek  from  the  outfield. 

“ ‘Lean  on  the  cfipples,’  mama  always  said,” 
Pless  called  humorlessly. 

Gammill  stood  still  as  ice,  frozen  in  the  thought 
that  he  was  in  the  dream  of  his  life.  To  make  sure  it 
could  not  be  punctured  he  started  a more  elaborate 
windup,  resolved  to  let  his  arm  all  out  on  the  next 
pitch,  but  Pless  was  out  of  the  box  again.  Doing 
some  more  eye  rubbing.  Then  Pless  hopped  back  in, 
and  he  was  cocking  his  wrist  to  break  off  a vicious 
curve. 


The  ball  snapped  sharply  down  and  toward  I 
Pless’s  knees.  It  wasn’t  a major  league  pitch,  but  it  ! 
didn’t  miss  being  one  by  much.  Most  batters  would 
have  let  it  go  by  as  slim  pickings,  taken  the  strike.  ; 
Pless  took  a stuttery  step  toward  first  base,  though, 
and  golfed  it  down  the  line,  a man-sized  double  in 
any  league. 

The  next  pitch,  on  the  outside  corner,  was  sent 
on  a line  to  dead  center,  and  the  fourth,  fifth,  and 
sixth  were  scattered  to  the  deepest  parts  of  the  out- 
field, missing  the  creek  only  because  they  were  not 
pulled  quite  hard  enough. 

“Ain’t  getting  around  on  you  a’tall.  Old  shoul- 
ders don’t  have  that  good  snap  no  more.”  Pless 
sounded  almost  apologetic. 

Gammill  had  two  balls  left;  he  would  soon  have 
to  do  some  retrieving.  The  first  hit,  in  the  creek,  was 
definitely  gone,  and  some  of  the  others  might  not  be 
found  either.  He  had  only  brought  half  a dozen  more 

t 


27 


Browning’s  Lamps 


balls,  despite  Pless’s  injunction.  His  breath  was  com- 
ing nearly  as  hard  as  Pless’s  now,  though  not 
because  of  any  physical  effort.  He  was  in  a state  of 
tremendous  excitement  and  imbelief.  He  watched 
Pless  hold  the  bat  between  his  knees  while  he  dug  at 
the  comers  of  his  eyes.  Pless  had  done  this  same 
routine  now  before  each  pitch.  It  could  have  been 
only  an  old  ritual  Pless  had  picked  up,  a habit  like 
Harry  Walker’s  taking  his  cap  off  and  putting  it  on 
again  or  Rocky  Colavito’s  stretching  the  bat  behind 
his  back  to  flex  his  shoulders,  but  it  could  have  had 
other  meanings.  Maybe  Pless  didn’t  believe  what  he 
was  seeing,  either. 

Gammill  tossed  the  ball  idly  in  his  hand,  but  his 
mind  was  not  idle.  “Lights  going  on  you,  Pless?’’  he 
said  finally.  The  man  had  taken  an  especially  long 
time  since  the  last  pitch. 

“Dust  in  the  old  windows,”  Pless  muttered.  He 
took  a handkerchief  out  of  his  pocket  and  shook  it 
out  in  a vastly  exaggerated  gesture.  Gammill  had  the 
distinct  impression  that  this  was  all  part  of  a show  to 
get  him  to  ask  the  question  that  had  been  crabbing 
away  in  his  brain  for  the  past  several  minutes. 

“What  would  happen  if  you  didn’t  rub  your 
eyes?  If  you  just  got  in  there  and  hit?” 

Pless  put  the  handkerchief  away  and  squared 
himself  at  the  plate  again,  as  if  he  hadn’t  heard. 
Perhaps  he  really  hadn’t,  or  hadn’t  wanted  to. 

“What  about  it,  Pless?  You  putting  some  kind 
of  trick  drops  in  them  or  something?” 

For  an  instant,  only  the  barest  instant,  Pless’s 
shoulders  jerked,  and  Gammill  remembered  in  the 
store  when  the  man  had  been  caught  off  guard.  Only 
out  here  it  seemed  he  was  acting  as  if  he  wanted  to 
be  caught.  Gammill  felt  a tremor  of  recognition 
across  the  back  of  his  own  shoulders  as  it  occurred 
to  him  that  the  events  in  the  store  might  have  been 
staged,  too.  He  had  been  meant  to  see  quickly 
through  the  play-role  of  Joe  Carter,  slothful  store- 
keeper. Now  he  was  intended  to  see  that  Pless  had  a 
secret  to  hitting.  Those  eyes  were  it.  In  them, 
somewhere.  There’d  been  Ted  WUliams  with  his 
20-10  vision,  so  acute  he  never  swung  at  a pitch  that 
was  so  much  as  a hair  out  of  the  strike  zone.  Pless’s 
eyes  looked  to  be  even  keener,  for  distances  anyway. 
In  the  store  Gammill  recalled  how  Pless  had  held  the 
letter  well  away  from  him  to  see  it.  An  old  man’s 
eyes,  when  it  came  to  reading.  Or  perhaps  that  too 
had  been  an  affectation.  Gammill  was  beginning  to 
arrive  at  the  notion  that  Pless  could  actually  read 
Cronin’s  signature  on  each  ball  before  he  swung  at 
it.  If  he  could  read  at  all.  If  he  had  ever  learned  how. 
Goober  Talbot  recognized  his  favorite  brand  of  rye 
by  the  picture  on  the  label,  and  Pless  didn’t  look 
much  swifter  in  the  head  department.  By  God, 
though,  with  Pless’s  ability  to  hit,  even  a cretin  could 
make  the  majors  these  days.  Gammill  himself  would 

2« 


become  a Hall  of  Famer.  He  understood  now  the 
foolishness  of  the  hope  that  had  brought  him  here. 
He  had  wanted  to  divine  the  secret  of  Pless’s  wizard- 
ry with  a bat  and  acquire  it  for  himself.  But  the 
secret  wasn’t  anything  that  could  be  told.  It  was  a 
gift,  Gammill  was  convinced,  a gift  of  vision,  and 
there  was  no  way  he  could  acqitire  that. 

And  then,  as  it  happened,  there  suddenly  was 
a way.  Pless,  in  swinging  at  the  next  pitch, 
went  down  in  a heap  beside  the  plate  and  lay 
very  still.  The  ball  squibbed  off  his  bat  along  the 
ground  toward  Gammill,  who  followed  its  course  a 
moment  or  two  before  he  observed  that  Pless  had 
fallen.  Racing  to  the  plate,  he  found  Pless’s  eyes 
open  and  blinking  but  the  rest  of  his  face  gone  awry, 
as  if  he  had  been  struck  in  the  head— clubbed  from 
behind.  Gammill  had  seen  this  once  before  on  the 
ballfield;  in  1948,  as  a nine-year-old,  he  had  watched 
Don  Black,  of  the  Indians,  tofple  after  swinging 
hard  at  a pitch,  the  victim  of  a cerebral  hemorrhage. 
Bending  over  Pless,  he  asked  if  he  could  be  heard. 
When  Pless  only  blinked  some  more,  he  shouted  he 
was  going  for  a doctor  and  ran  for  his  car. 

In  the  hospital  the  improbable  fragments  that 
had  been  shaken  loose  and  stirred  amok  all  those 
weeks  ago  in  that  New  York  hotel  room  tumbled  at 
last  into  the  mosaic  of  a firm  and  final  plan.  Pless 
was  diagnosed  as  having  sustained  a massive  stroke 
and  put  under  around-the-clock  observation.  Accord- 
ing to  the  doctors,  he  might  pull  through  but  more 
likely  he  wouldn’t;  in  any  case,  he  would  never  again 
be  more  than  basket  material.  All  this  Gammill  was 
told  after  identifying  himself  as  Pless’s  nephew.  He 
was  taking  a risk  that  Pless  liad  no  other  living 
relatives,  or  at  least  none  who  cared  enough  to  im- 
pede step  one  of  the  Gammill  Coup.  Around  mid- 
night, left  alone  briefly  with  Pless,  he  got  a pen  into 
the  man’s  putty-jointed  fingers  and  sat  beside  the 
bed,  pretending  to  doze  while  he  waited  for  the 
nurse  to  return.  On  the  bed  sh(jet,  within  reach  of 
Pless’s  hand,  was  a single  spideiy  line  of  scrawl:  “I 
leave  my  body  to  my  nephew,  Howard  Gammill,  to 
do  with  as  he  wishes.”  Pless’s  signature  was  even 
more  wispy  than  the  will  itself,  and  Gammill  trusted 
no  one  would  examine  it  too  closely,  for  he  had 
started  to  write  Pinch  before  catching  himself  and 
scratching  Walker  over  it. 

No  one  wondered  unduly  long  how  Pless  had 
managed  to  eke  out  a will  although  pretty  much 
paralyzed,  but  a few  days  later,  when  Pless  fell  into 
a coma  that  spelled  the  end,  Gammill’s  request  that 
Pless’s  eyes  hie  transplanted  into  his  own  head  got 
some  odd  looks  and  an  argument.  What  did  a young 
man  with  quite  serviceable  vision  want  with  the  eyes 
of  a bummy  cabbage-head?  Gammill  produced  a tale 
of  hereditary  blindness  at  age  forty,  noting  that 


A few  days  later, 
when  Pkiss  fell  into  a coma 
that  spelled  the  end, 
Gammill’s  request  that 
Pless’s  eyes  be  transplanted 
into  his  own  head 
got  some  odd  lool« 
and  an  argument. 

What  did  a young  man 
with  quite  serviceable  vision 
want  with  the  eyes 
of  a bummy  cabbage-head? 


Pless  alone  of  the  males  in  his  family  had  been 
spared  the  dread  affliction.  All  the  doctors  Gammill 
spoke  to  had  the  SEime  reaction.  To  a man,  they  did 
not  want  the  responsibility  for  any  operation  such  as 
Gammill  was  suggesting.  One  eye— well,  perhaps,  but 
never  both.  There  was  Holzapple,  though,  up  in 
Louisville,  an  opthomological  renegade  who’d  put  his 
mother’s  eyes  in  a mole  for  the  sake  of  experiment. 

Gammill  found  Holzapple  to  be  much  older 
than  he’d  anticipated.  Close  to  Pless’s  age,  in  fact, 
with  hair  growing  out  of  his  ears  and  indeed  out  of 
the  edges  of  every  orifice  except  his  eyeballs.  These 
listened  intently  to  Gammill  and  then  appeared  to 
blur  with  doubt. 

“Why  not  just  swap  the  corneas?  Be  much 
safer.  Corneas  I C£in  do  just  like  putting  in  a new 
windowpane.’’ 

“The  whole  eyeball,”  Gammill  said.  “It  has  to 
be.  The  disease  affects  the  retinas.” 

“Oddest  thing  I ever  heard.  Only  attacks  the 
males,  you  say?” 

Gammill  was  afraid  Holzapple  would  continue 
to  probe  until  the  story  was  shown  up  for  the  sham 
that  it  was,  but  Holzapple  stopped  short  of  that.  He 
seemed  willing  to  allow  Gammill  his  lie  if  Gammill 
in  return  would  sign  a waiver  releasing  him  of 
all  culpability  in  the  event  the  operation  failed.  Gam- 
mill’s  plan  had  included  a clause  that  he  would  get 
his  own  eyes  back  if  Pless’s  didn’t  work  out.  They 
could  be  stored  somewhere,  couldn’t  they,  while  the 
results  of  the  operation  were  awaited?  No  such  luck, 
Holzapple  said.  There  was  no  going  back;  the  tissues 
wouldn’t  absorb  further  surgery  for  weeks  after- 
ward, and  in  the  meantime  Gammill’s  eyes  would  be 
worthless.  As  yet,  human  organs  weren’t  like  spare 
auto  parts  that  could  be  kept  on  the  shelf  until 
needed. 

Hearing  all  this,  Gammill  suffered  a violent 
qualm,  but  it  passfid  in  the  glaze  of  remembering 
Pless’s  artistry  with  a bat.  The  chance  that  those 
seventy-odd-year-old  eyes  in  his  thirtyish  body  could 
make  him  overnight  into  a Rod  Carew  . . . the  mere 


chance!  That  they  could  also  reduce  him  to  a walker 
of  guide  dogs,  a toter  of  tin  cups  was  swept  quickly 
out  of  mind  by  a picture  of  himself  in  a major  league 
uniform.  And  the  voices  of  sportscasters  all  across 
the  country  saying,  “Howard  Gammill,  oldest 
Rookie-of-the-Year  ever,  at  thirty-five,  four  times  a 
batting  title  winner,  today  was  elected  to  the 
Baseball  Hall  of  Fame  in  a landslide  vote.  Gammill, 
who  compiled  a .386  lifetime  average  in  his  brief  but 
incredible  career  ...”  Later  for  the  stuff  of  dreams. 
For  now,  it  was  enough  that  he  had  a shot  at  mak- 
ing them  come  true.  He  signed  the  waiver,  entered 
the  one  hospital  in  Louisville  that ' still  granted  the 
controversial  Holzapple  surgical  privileges  under  the 
name  of  Harold  Traynor  (getting  a kick  out  of  the 
fact  that  no  one  on  the  staff  recognized  the  real 
monicker  of  the  immortal  Pie)  and  as  a show  of  faith 
gave  his  own  eyes  to  a teenage  girl  who  had  blown 
her  face  apart  with  a can  of  hair  spray. 

Coming  to  consciousness  after  the  operation, 
Gammill  found  his  entire  head  swathed  in  bandages 
and  wished  only  to  sleep  until  the  day  they  could  be 
removed.  Thus  he  swallowed  voraciously  all  the 
Valiums  and  Darvons  he  was  given  and  sought  ex- 
tras from  his  fellow  patients,  bargaining  away  dishes 
of  rice  pudding,  slabs  of  steak,  occasionally  slipping  a 
bill  or  two  into  a hand  that  could  not  see  what  it  was 
getting  any  more  than  his  own  could  see  what  it  was 
giving.  » 

Days  passed  so.  On  one  of  them  Gammill 
turned  his  face  toward  what  he  was  told  was 
the  vidndow  and  tried  to  see  through  the  ban- 
dages. It  was  his  only  moment  of  impatience.  The 
afternoon  Holzapple  announced  they’d  try  a test  or 
two  was  a murky  one.  Anyway,  that  was  how  it 
looked  when  Gammill  unsealed  his  new  eyes  and 
took  a glance  into  space.  There  wasn’t  much  of 
it— that  was  his  first  impression,  and  his  second  was 
that  his  room  must  be  underwater.  A lot  of  fishy 
items  were  out  there  swimming  around,  some  of 
them  so  close  he  could  have  reached  out  and  grabbed 
them,  if  he’d  been  able  to  locate  his  hand  when  he 
looked  down  where  it  used  to  be.  In  its  place  was  a 
wad  of  fuzz,  and  another  was  off  to  his  left  talking 
to  him  in  Holzapple’s  voice. 

“See  anything,  Gammill?” 

“The  bottom  of  a rain  barrel.” 

“Excellent.  Most  transplants  come  up  blank.” 
“Now  you  tell  me.” 

Gammill  waited  for  Holzapple  to  tell  him  that 
his  sight  would  get  better.  Holzapple  didn’t.  The  ban- 
dages went  on  again,  and  the  day  follovidng  Gammill 
saw  the  same  spectrum  of  murk.  A moment  oc- 
curred, however,  when  it  lifted  and  the  world  he 
remembered  emerged  as  if  from  behind  a curtain.  He 
felt  reborn,  in  a way.  Certainly  not  the  same  man. 

- -‘t 


29 


Browning’s  Lamps 


Holzapple  predicted  there’d  be  other  such  moments 
of  clarity,  and  that  one  day  they’d  begin  outnumber- 
ing the  periods  of  murk.  As  soon  as  the  riot  in  his 
vitreouses  ran  its  course. 

In  late  May  there  came  a morning  when  the 
bandages  came  off  and  stayed  off.  The  eyes  were 
still  bloodshot  and  more  blurry  than  not,  but  Gam- 
mill  did  not  feel  he  could  wait  any  longer  before  con- 
ducting a few  vital  tests  of  his  own  on  them.  One  in 
particular.  He  chose  an  interval  when  he  was 
imobserved,  closed  his  right  eye  and  lifted  a finger  to 
the  comer  of  his  left.  He  could  not  rub  hard,  the 
flesh  there  was  still  too  tender  for  that,  but  he  did 
get  in  a few  light  swipes  before  a throbbing  started. 

The  throbbing  was  severe  enough  to  make  him 
blink,  but  he  would  have  blinked  anyway.  He 
couldn’t  have  helped  himself.  For  what  he  saw  over 
the  next  few  moments  nearly  stopped  his  heart.  His 
left  eye  was  fixed  on  the  nurse  where  she  stood  at 
the  window  arranging  the  blind  to  let  in  the  morning 
light.  At  first  everything  thalf  occurred  seemed  in  the 
realm  of  the  ordinary— her  back  arched  and  her  hand 
closed  on  the  cord,  tugging  to  secure  it.  But  as  she 
turned  from  the  window,  matters  started  to  get 
weird.  She  looked  as  if  she  was  having  trouble  bring- 
ing her  head  around;  and  yet— no,  it  wasn’t  just  her 
head,  it  was  all  of  her  body.  None  of  her  movements 
looked  right;  they  were  the  right  movements,  and  in 
their  natural  order,  but  something  about  them  was 
way  off.  Gammill’s  hand  went  to  his  eye  reflexively 
-to  rub  some  more,  then  dropped  with  astonishment 
to  his  side  as  what  was  happening  dawned  on  him. 
The  nurse  was  moving  as  if  she  had  been  put  into 
slow  motion!  It  was  taking  her  forever  just  to  get 
away  from  the  window  and  cross  the  room  to  his 
bed. 

In  another  moment,  however,  she  seemed  to 
be  running  at  him,  and  then  she  was  there.  “What’s 
wrong,  Mr.  Traynor?  Are  you  all  right?” 

“Fine.  Never  better.”  He  ought  to  repeat  the 
process  immediately  so  he  would  know  he  hadn’t 
imagined  it,  but  the  nurse  wouldn’t  stop  hovering 
over  him. 

“You  look  so  pale,  and  your  eye— why  is  it 
closed  like  that?  Does  it  hurt?” 

It  was  his  left  eye  that  was  closed  now,  against 
what  it  had  seen.  The  right  one  was  moving  around 
the  room  a little  wildly,  for  it  was  his  now:  the 
secret,  the  trick  to  hitting  .400.  To  hitting  1.000  if  he 
wanted  to  be  gluttonous  about  it!  Jim  Palmer’s 
curves  would  have  no  more  menace  than  clots  of  cot- 
ton candy.  Wilhelm’s  knucklers  might  never  reach 
the  plate  in  this  millennium. 

“Nothing  hurts.  I feel  great.  It’s  just  being 
here.  I’m  getting  edgy.” 

Holzapple  released  him  from  the  hospital  at  the 
end  of  the  week.  By  then  he’d  learned  that  the  rub- 


bing stunt  worked  equally  well  on  both  eyes,  and 
that  no  matter  how  hard  he  rubbed,  the  slo-mo 
phenomenon  lasted  at  most  only  a few  seconds.  All 
of  this  was  knowledge  gained  under  indoor  condi- 
tions, lying  flat  on  his  back  in  bed.  Out  of  doors  re- 
mained an  unknown  until  he  hit  the  street.  There, 
with  the  hospital  looming  behind  him,  he  stood  on 
the  comer  waiting  for  the  traffic  light  to  change. 
When  it  seemed  to  be  taking  too  long,  he  realized 
what  he  had  done.  In  stepping  out  of  the  hospital  in- 
to the  dazzling  sunshine,  he  had  performed  by  in- 
stinct some  brushing  of  the  eyes  to  protect  them.  It 
could  be  brought  about  quite  by  accident,  then.  He 
wondered  what  other  quirks  he  had  yet  to  discover. 
Refining  his  act  was  undoubtedly  going  to  take  a 
wMe.  Not  terribly  long,  though,  he  hoped,  because 
the  baseball  season  was  already  well  underway  and 
he’d  have  to  debut  soon  to  have  any  chance  at 
Rookie-of-the-Y  ear. 

In  his  musing  he  had  missed  the  light  change. 
No  problem.  A pass  at  his  eyes  and  approaching  cars 
were  reduced  to  the  pace  of  giant  snails.  He  stepped 
off  the  curb  and  started  across.  In  a moment  he  was 
reeling  backwards,  lunging  for  the  curb  again.  His 
legs,  walking,  weren’t  carrying  him  anywhere  near 
as  fast  as  the  cars.  In  bed  he’d  had  no  occasion  to 
notice  how  his  own  movements  slowed  to  correspond 
to  the  world  around  him.  A whole  world  of  snails 
and  himself  one  of  them.  A v'orld  of  time  inter- 
rupted, if  only  for  a few  moments  here  and  there.  It 
was  all  illusory,  but  then,  what  wasn’t? 

Tinkering  with  something  cosmic  was  what  he 
was  doing.  Pless  had  done  it  for  years,  and  nothing 
untoward  had  happened  to  him,  except  your  stand- 
ard old  man’s  graceless  death.  One  thing  he  had 
done  some  stopping  to  think  on  while  in  the  hospital 
was  how  Pless  had  come  into  possession  of  these 
eyes.  Perhaps  witchcraft  was  beliind  them.  How  else 
to  explain  the  similarity  in  method  between  summon- 
ing their  magic  and  the  genie  in  Aladdin’s  lamp? 
With  that  strangely  thrilling  conviction,  Gammill 
hailed  a cab  and  went  directly  to  the  airport,  re- 
hearsing the  sick-relative  story  he  would  spring  on 
his  editor  to  account  for  the  long  silence  from  his 
typewriter.  - 

The  Indians,  going  nowhere  as  usual,  let  him 
travel  with  their  club  while  he  supposedly 
worked  on  a baseball  version  of  Plimpton’s 
Paper  Lion.  The  players  ribbed  him  mercilessly  and 
kept  suggesting  such  titles  as  Wooden  Indian.  His 
editor  had  made  a deal  with  the  Cleveland  manage- 
ment whereby  he  would  be  put  on  the  active  roster 
after  the  twenty-five-man  limit  was  lifted  on 
September  1,  and  thrown  into  a game  or  two  as  a 
pinch  runner.  The  prospect  of  putting  him  up  to  bat, 
though,  was  nigh  onto  nonexistent.  The  game  was 


30 


; still  smarting  from  Veeck’s  use  of  a midget  years 
! ago  and  wanted  no  more  sideshow  ventures,  even 
; under  the  catch-all  guise  of  literature. 

! That,  on  short  notice,  was  the  best  Gammill’s 
j editor  had  been  able  to  do  for  him  and  then  only 
j under  enormous  prodding.  In  his  professional  view 
: he  gave  a very  low  value  to  the  theory  about  Gam- 
mill’s  needing  an  insider’s  look  at  the  game  before 
he  could  make  Day  of  Gold  credible,  especially  since 
. rival  publishing  outfits  were  coming  out  with 
: baseball  books  all  the  time  by  poets  and  feminist 
: journalists  who  had  no  more  idea  that  “hit-and-run” 

. in  baseball  parlance  was  not  a criminal  offense,  than 
they  did  that  a steel  cup  was  not  for  drinking  but  an 
item  of  protective  apparel.  “The  trouble  with 

■ Bouton,  Brosnan,  and  the  rest  of  them,”  Gammill 
said,  “was  they  were  really  company  men  at  bottom. 

. If  you  thought  they  made  feathers  fly,  put  me  in  the 
; clubhouse  for  a fev/  weeks  and  you’ll  see  the  real 
I lowdown  on  what  makes  a bunch  of  men  run  around 
, in  pajamas.” 

Gammill  actuEilly  took  no  notes  at  all,  though 
he  did  make  a display  of  hanging  around  a lot  and 
nodding  wisely  to  himself  each  time  one  of  the  subs 
I uttered  in  his  earshot  some  bon  mot  about  the  game. 

■ The  Indians’  manager  meanwhile  ignored  him,  as  did 
I most  of  the  regulars.  From  time  to  time,  however, 

' one  of  the  rookie  pitchers,  a lefty  named  Tybender, 

. came  out  to  the  parlt  early  in  the  morning  and  threw 

a few  minutes  of  batting  practice  to  him  in  return 
for  some  tutoring  in  the  art  of  writing.  'Tybender 
was  keeping  a diary  of  his  first  season  and  hoped  to 
become  a novelist  v'hen  his  playing  days  were  over. 

. That  could  be  soon,  for  pitching  to  Gammill  began 
I invidiously  to  undermine  his  confidence.  At  the 
j outset  Gammill  limited  his  eye  gimmick  to  one  or 
two  pitches  a session,  but  gradually  he  stepped  up 
the  tempo  until  he  was  smoting  the  rookie’s  best  of- 
ferings effortlessly  out  of  the  park.  Word  of  Gam- 


mill’s  unlikely  prowess  in  due  order  reached  the  In- 
dians’ third-base  coach,  who  lurked  in  a corner  of  the 
dugout  one  morning,  pretending  interest  in  the  bat 
racks.  Both  Gammill  and  the  rookie  knew  he  was 
there,  and  both  were  nervous.  The  rookie,  thinking 
he  was  on  trial,  blazed  his  first  pitch  high  and  tight, 
and  Gammill,  having  decided  to  take  a straight  look 
at  a toss  or  two  before  going  into  his  eye-throttling 
routine,  narrowly  missed  decapitation. 

'I^bender  next  served  a curve  that  started  in 
on  Gammill’s  hands  and  broke  like  a comet  at  the 
last  instant  over  the  inside  corner.  That,  at  least, 
was  how  the  pitch  might  have  appeared  to  the  coach. 
To  Gammill’s  genie-invoked  eyes  it  was  a moon  on  a 
platter,  and  he  hit  it  into  the  upper  deck. 

A groan  escaped  Tybender,  and  in  the  dugout 
there  was  a clatter.  Glancing  over  his  shoulder,  Gam- 
mill saw  a bench  had  fallen  and  the  coach  was  now 
up  on  the  steps. 

Mixing  frequent  cap  adjustments  with  the  ' 
cleansing  of  perspiration  from  his  brow,  he  kept  time  | 
on  the  field  in  a state  of  near  perpetual  suspension  | 
while  he  rattled  balls  off  the  fences  like  buckshot.  1 
He  was  careful  not  to  overstimulate  the  coach,  | 
sometimes  deliberately  missing  pitches  he  could  easi-  ' 
ly  have  clobbered.  Once  he  even  switched  for  a few 
moments  to  batting  righthanded  and  looked  foolish. 
The  coach  was  meant  to  believe  he  was  treating  the 
outing  as  pure  fun  andrthat  he  took  nothing  he  did 
too  seriously.  Like  an  aspiring  film  actor,  he  must  ^ 
not  toot  his  own  horn  but  let  the  director  discover  : 
him  on  his  own.  He  finished  the  workout  with  a shot 
over  the  center  field  fence  that  struck  at  the  base  of  j 
the  bleachers,  territory  no  Indian  had  reached  in  j 
years.  Locked  into  downshifted  motion  still,  and  a 
little  dizzy,  he  turned  from  the  plate  to  amble  toward 
the  dugout.  The  coach  was  creeping  out  on  the  field 
to  greet  him,  arms  waving  like  windmills  on  a ' 
breezeless  day.  The  coach’s  words  tumbled  out  at 
normal  speed,  though.  Sounds,  oddly,  were  not  af- 
fected  in  the  slightest.  | 

“Pretty  fair  stroke  there,  Gammill,  for  a guy  i 
sits  behind  a typewriter  all  day.  Stick  around.  Maybe 
Klosterman  will  chuck  a few  to  you  when  he  comes  ■ 
out  to  do  some  photos  for  Sport.” 

Klosterman  was  the  team’s  ace,  a righty  j 
fireballer  who  already  had  nine  wins  despite  it  being  | 
only  June.  The  closest  thing  to  Feller  since  Feller  I 
himself.  “Well,  I don’t  know  if  I’m  up  to  anything 
like  that,”  Gammill  said.  “My  God,  I’m  just  out  for  a 
little  exercise.” 

Self-efface  'at  every  opportunity.  Overdo,  if 
necessary.  What  a clod  the  coach  was.  Cotdd  barely 
keep  from  choking  on  the  wad  of  chewing  tobacco  in  j 
his  cheek  over  what  he’d  seen,  but  still  trying  to  play 
it  coy.  As  Gammill  watched,  the  man’s  coma  ended 
and  the  arm  gyrations  quickened.  That  was  the  way 


I 


31 


Browning’s  Lamps 


it  went,  one  instant  the  world  spinning  in  turtle  time 
and  then  everything  back  to  its  usual  pell-mell  self. 

“Yoiu"  life  insurance  is  paid  up,”  the  coach 
said,  directing  a stream  of  tobacco  juice  at  a point 
midway  between  his  feet  and  Gammill’s.  “Besides, 
Klostie  needs  some  work  on  his  breaking  stuff 
against  lefties.” 

The  coach  was  getting  intrigued  by  him.  When 
he’d  pounded  Klosterman  around,  the  manager 
would  be  next.  The  Indians  desperately  lacked  a 
reliable  designated  hitter.  They  lacked  at  a number 
of  other  positions,  too,  but  Gammill’s  fantasies  did 
not  extend  to  filling  any  of  them.  In  the  field  he’d 
discovered,  as  Pless  must  have,  that  slowing  down 
the  flight  of  a ball  hit  his  way  did  not  help  much;  he 
was  missing  the  instinct  and  the  footspeed  necessary 
to  get  him  to  where  it  was  going.  On  the  other  hand, 
standing  stationary  in  the  batter’s  box,  lining  him- 
self up  to  tee  off  on  an  object  rendered  almost 
ponderous,  was  a matter  he  could  have  mastered  in 
his  sleep.  Well,  actually  not.  The  eye  gimmick  would 
not  work  in  the  dark  or  under  artificial  light;  Gam- 
mill  did  not  know  why  that  was.  It  seemed  to  have 
something  to  do  with  the  sun;  on  a cloudy  day,  for 
example,  he  couldn’t  get  his  eyes  focused  clearly.  He 
remembered  Pless’s  obsession  that  there  be  good 
light  for  batting  and  his  continual  squinting  into  the 
setting  sun,  which  he  had  regarded  at  the  time  as 
part  of  the  act.  Of  late  he  had  begun  feeling  unac- 
countable impulses  to  gaze  into  the  sun  himself.  The 
brighter  it  was,  the  more  he  was  drawn  to  it.  Thus 
far  he  had  refrained  from  indulging  those  urges.  The 
sun  was  dangerous  to  the  naked  eye;  moreover, 
things  that  did  not  . . . belong  sometimes  material- 
ized if  he  were  out  in  it  too  long.  There  had  been 
those  queer  ads  for  toothpowder  and  chewing  tobac- 
co on  the  outfield  wall  a few  days  ago;  and  just  this 
morning  Tybender  had  been  wearing  a baggy 
uniform  of  a style  that  had  been  the  norm  in  Goober 
Talbot’s  day. 

Klosterman  finished  his  photography  session 
with  Sport  shortly  after  eleven.  He  held  no 
great  interest  in  Gammill  but  agreed  to  toss 
a few  pitches  to  him  in  lieu  of  his  normal  workout 
the  day  before  a scheduled  starting  assignment. 
Gammill  pretended  to  shake  in  his  shoes  as  he 
stepped  up  to  the  plate,  to  be  playing  the  clown.  -He 
settled  in,  the  bat  resting  on  his  left  shoulder.  Direct- 
ly overhead  the  sun  glared,  nearing  noonday  intensi- 
ty. Behind  him  the  coach  hunkered  in  the  dugout;  a 
few  other  players,  subs  out  early  for  a little  extra 
practice,  took  up  positions  on  the  field.  Falling  in 
with  GammOl’s  mock  festive  spirit,  one  of  them  sta- 
tioned himself  at  shortstop  with  a catcher’s  mitt,  and 
another  trotted  out  to  first  base  wearing  his  cap 
backwards.  This  man  went  flying  heels  over  head 
32 


when  Gammill’s  first  swing  caromed  a liner  at  him 
so  hot  it  tore  the  glove  off  his  hand. 

“Better  bear  down,  Klostie;  get  a man  killed 
out  here,”  someone  shouted.  Unobtrusively  Kloster- 
man dug  a deeper  foothold  for  himself  at  the  edge  of 
the  rubber.  Gammill  peered  at  his  obdurate,  arrogant 
profile,  trapped  in  the  throes  of  time  half-fi-ozen. 
Suddenly  the  profile  seemed  to  grow  in  size,  to  move 
closer,  and  over  its  shoulder  Gammill  saw  the  short- 
stop was  now  playing  barehanded.  Craning  his  head 
judiciously  to  the  right,  he  watched  the  man  on  first 
smooth  his  hair  and  replace  his  cap.  The  maneuver 
was  standard,  one  he’d  seen  a thousand  times  on  the 
playing  field,  but  the  cap  was  a different  matter.  He 
had  never  seen  one  like  it  anyvirhere.  Definitely  it 
was  not  the  red  felt  job  the  man  had  on  his  head  up 
till  a moment  ago.  Matter  of  fact,  it  was  brown.  So 
was  the  rest  of  the  man’s  uniform,  including  the 
socks,  which  also  bore  wide  yellow  stripes.  And  in 
place  of  the  first  baseman’s  glove  he  had  been  wear- 
ing was  a skin-tight  contraption  that  resembled  the 
hand  protectors  used  by  golfers  and  horsemen. 

Klosterman,  under  average  height,  rather 
stocky,  now  seemed  positively  elongated.  He  too  had 
on  a brown  uniform.  His  pitch  came  plateward  from 
below  his  shoulder,  jerkily  sidearm,  with  hardly  any 
windup.  Thoroughly  unnerved,  Gammill  could  not  get 
his  bat  off  his  shoulder  even  though  he  had  what 
must  have  been  a good  five  seconds  from  the  time  it 
left  Klosterman’ s hand. 

But  it  was  no  longer  Klosterman  out  there. 
The  face  that  stared  back  at  his  was  gaunt  and 
sallow.  Then  of  course  it  disappeared  and  Kloster- 
man’s  sneering  mouth  and  ruddy  cheeks  floated  in 
front  of  him  again. 

He  backed  hastily  out  of  the  box  and  scraped 
some  dirt  over  his  hands.  Klosterman’s  call  to  him 
was  low-pitched  but  giggly  with  amusement.  “What 
happened,  Howie?  Too  much  smcike  on  that  one?” 

Gammill  wanted  desperately  to  assume  this 
was  all  some  effect  of  the  light  on  his  still  not-quite- 
healed  eyes,  and  that  at  the  same  time  was  precisely 
his  dread.  The  sun  even  this  moment  was  attempting 
to  pull  his  eyes  up  from  the  ground.  Now  it  was 
much  more  - than  curiosity  that;  impelled  him  to 
wonder  what  he  evoked  each  time  he  performed  his 
Aladdin  ritual.  However,  his  dogged  determination 
asserted  itself  at  this  point.  He  would  forge  ahead.  A 
hand  on  his  forehead,  thumb  and  middle  finger 
stroking  gently  at  the  comer  of  either  eye,  and  the 
earth’s  rotation  slowed,  an  action  so  deftly  managed 
that  it  would  have  seemed  only  a moment’s  brow- 
mopping to  the  casual  onlooker.  Anyway,  all  the  at- 
tention was  on  Klosterman,  who  was  cranking  his 
arm  for  another  high,  hard  one. 

Except  that  Klosterman’s  pitch  once  more 
came  in  sidearm,  and  with  so  li1;tle  steam  on  it  he 


In  a surge  of  self-pity, 
he  wondered  whether 
anyone  in  all  the  world 
was  as  unlucky  as  he. 
He  had  the  secret 
to  becoming  the  greatest 
hitter  in  the  history 
of  baseball,  and  nothing 
to  stop  him  from 
exploiting  it.  Nothing 
except  the  complete 
knowledge  of  his  doom 
if  he  did. 


could  literally  have  counted  the  seams  on  the  ball.  A 
queerish  ball  it  was,  too,  having  no  league  stamp  on 
it  and  a trifle  lopsided,  more  a melon  shape  than  ex- 
actly round. 

He  swatted  grimly  at  it  and  watched  it  scoot 
out  over  second  base  where  it  was  speared  on  the 
run  by  the  shortstop  with  his  bare  left  hand.  Pausing 
to  right  himself,  the  man  heaved  the  ball  across  to 
the  first  baseman,  who  awaited  it  with  both  feet 
straddling  the  bag. 

Throughout  this  performance  Gammill  stood 
stock-still.  Whatev€!r  was  going  on  out  there  re- 
minded him  more  of  a vaudeville  act  of  baseball  than 
baseball  itself.  No  one  in  his  right  mind  played  first 
base  with  his  feet  anchored  like  that,  but  then  no  one 
played  barehanded  either.  Not  in  this  day  and  age. 

Nor,  for  that  matter,  in  Pless’s  day.  Hence  the 
possibility,  which  Vv^as  just  now  occurring  to  him, 
that  these  eyes  might  retain  pictures  of  the  past,  along 
with  their  other  supernatural  qualities,  could  not  be 
rejected  out  of  hand. 

Or  now,  wait  a minute. 

Gammill  again  felt  a curious  desire  to  look 
skyward  and  relucfcintly  succumbed  to  it. 

He  saw  nothing  unusual  up  there,  but  the  mere 
fact  that  he  wanted  to  stare  into  the  sun  and  keep 
on  staring  was  in  itself  unusual. 

“Whattaya,  crazy?  Burn  your  lamps  out,  you 
keep  doing  that.”  Klosterman’s  voice  was  derisive, 
but  the  words  sounded  as  a familiar  melody  to 
Gammill. 

Someone  else  had  referred  to  eyes  as  lamps, 
once.  Someone  long  ago,  in  the  infant  days  of 
baseball. 

The  Gladiator.  He  who,  legend  had  it,  used  to 
stand  on  the  street  each  morning  upon  emerging 
from  his  hotel  and  stare  for  moments  on  end  directly 
into  the  sun.  Gave  the  old  lamps  energy,  he  said 
when  queried  about  his  habit,  and  though  his  logic 
was  thought  to  be  the  height  of  madness,  who  could 
argue  with  its  results? 


The  Gladiator.  For  years  the  scourge  of  the  old 
American  Association. 

And  there  it  was.  Gammill’s  jaw  sagged.  And 
as  he  tore  his  eyes  away  from  the  sun,  he  experi- 
enced at  first  a fantastic  suspicion,  then  a sudden 
pulsating  conviction.  Unhurriedly  he  backed  away 
from  the  plate  and  bent  down  as  if  to  tie  his  shoe 
while  he  thought  more.  But  his  nonchalance  now 
disguised  panic:  it  was  horribly  clear  to  him  that 
these  eyes  had  not  originated  in  any  Walker  B. 
Pless. 

The  American  Association.  The  Beer-and- 
Baseball-on-Sunday  League.  Those  drab  brown 
uniforms  out  there  a few  moments  ago,  those  absurd 
block  caps,  the  awakening,  confused  images  of 
another  century  versus  the  gaudy  red  and  white  In- 
dian outfits  he  saw  all  around  him  now:  two  kinds  of 
appearance  and  no  reality  at  all. 

He  wished  with  all  his  heart  that  he  had  the 
capacity  to  tell  himself  otherwise,  but  he  knew 
beyond  any  doubt  that  he  had  been  in  the  company 
of  the  fabled  old  St.  Louis  Browns.  The  elongated 
pitcher,  that  had  been  Scissors  Foutz  who  still  held 
the  all-time  record  for  the  highest  lifetime  winning 
percentage.  None  other  than  the  Old  Roman,  Charlie 
Comiskey  himself,  at  first  base.  The  rest  of  them 
scattered  out  over  the  diamond  he  didn’t  know  by 
name,  but  they  were  all  there.  The  boys  of  Chris  Von 
Der  Ahe.  For  a moment  his  terror  was  overcome  by 
a blade  of  fancy.  Oh,  the  book  he  might  write  if  he 
could  somehow  get  them  to  stay  long  enough  to  talk 
to  them! 

But  then  his  own  psychic  plight  numbed  him  to 
any  sensations  of  nostalgia,  and  he  began  trembling. 
All  that  looking  into  the  sun  the  Gladiator  had  done 
hadn’t  been  to  store  up  energy  but  for  quite  another 
purpose. 

He  yearned  to  find  some  other  explanation  of 
events,  but  he  knew  he  could  not.  In  a surge  of  self- 
pity,  he  wondered  whether  anyone  in  all  the  world 
was  as  unlucky  as  he.  He  had  the  secret  to  becoming 
the  greatest  hitter  in  the  history  of  baseball,  and 
unlike  Pless,  who  had  lived  in  a day  when  hitting 
alone  couldn’t  vault  a man  into  the  majors,  he  had 
nothing  to  stop  him  from  exploiting  it.  Nothing  ex- 
cept the  complete  knowledge  of  his  doom  if  he  did.  It 
seemed  all  too  clear  to  him  that  the  Gladiator  hadn’t 
acquired  his  lamps  by  accident  but  had  bargained  for 
them  hideously  and  then  had  somehow  maneuvered 
to  pass  them  on  before  he  was  called  to  account. 
Pless  too  had  managed  to  escape  the  fate  sealed  in 
their  centers.  ' 

Of  course,  at  least  some  of  this  could  be  the 
product  of  a panicked  imagination,  but  could  he  af- 
ford the  risk?  Could  he  gamble  that  whoever  was 
luckless  enough  to  have  the  eyes  when  the  lights 
finally  went  out  in  them  would  not  be  made  to  pay 

- % 


33 


Browning’s  Lamps 


the  full  electric  bill? 

Backing  out  of  the  batter’s  box,  Gammill 
understood  at  last  the  difference  between  obsession 
and  mere  desire.  For  someone  truly  obsessed  there 
would  have  been  no  decision  to  make  now:  the  risks 
were  never  greater  than  the  possibility  of  reward. 
But  for  him  there  was  nothing  in  his  mind  but 
decision. 

He  pulled  his  face  away  from  the  sun  and  ran 
for  the  dugout. 

In  Louisville  the  following  morning,  he  was  un- 
surprised to  learn  when  he  looked  up  Pless’s 
death  certificate  that  the  B.  stood  not  for  Babe 
or  Bingo  but  for  his  mother’s  maiden  name.  Holzap- 
ple  could  tell  him  little  of  the  early  history  of  eye 
transplants  but  agreed  to  check  the  reference  books. 
One  of  the  first  on  record,  it  turned  out,  was  per- 
formed in  the  same  hospital  where  Holzapple  now 
had  surgical  privileges.  In  1905  a six-year-old  boy 
who  was  blinded  in  a factory  accident  had  received 
the  eyes  of  his  dying  uncle.  Neither  the  boy’s  name 
nor  tiiat  of  the  donor  was  recorded  in  medical  an- 
nals, but  Gammill  had  only  to  check  The  Baseball  En- 


cyclopedia to  fill  in  both  with  deadly  accuracy. 

The  boy  had  been  Walker  Browning  Pless,  and 
his  uncle  had  been  Louis  Rogers  Browning. 

Old  Pete.  The  Gladiator. 

Gammill  would  never  know  imder  what  circum- 
stances the  original  pact  for  the  incredible  eyes  had 
been  made.  Nor  would  he  ever  discover  whether 
Pless  had  known  the  awful  secret  of  the  eyes  and 
schemed  mightily  to  get  them  out  of  his  head.  But 
then  no  one  had  to  know  anything  of  his  own  brush 
with  sorcery. 

Holzapple  charged  him  a thousand  dollars  for  the 
eyes  of  a toothbrush  salesman  v'ho  had  fallen  off  a 
motorcycle,  and  what  with  the  effects  of  the  two 
operations,  his  vision  was  only  eighty  percent  of 
what  it  had  once  been.  But  Gammill  would  settle  for 
seeing  the  world  at  normal  speed,  no  matter  how 
dimly. 

By  the  middle  of  fall  he  was  back  at  work  on 
Day  of  Gold.  Holzapple  never  told  him  what  he  had 
done  with  the  bewitched  eyes,  and  Gammill  never 
asked.  It  is  said,  though,  there  is  a mole  in  Louisville 
now  that  comes  out  of  the  ground  at  dawn  and  lies 
about  the  rest  of  the  day,  staring  at  the  sun.  (8 


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34 


Fantasy  in  Clay 


Of  all  the  cre£,tures  who 
crawled  out  of  the 
darkness  in  the  nineteenth 
century,  perhaps  the  strangest 
are  the  ones  captui'ed  in  the 
British  studio  of  the  Martin 
brothers. 

From  1880  to  1.914,  the  four 
Martins— Robert  Wallace,  Walter, 
Edwin,  and  Charles— created  in 
clay  an  unholy  world  of  bizarre 
birds,  half-human  faces,  and 
other  grotesque  creatures.  A 
hundred  years  latei',  in  a 
landmark  exhibition,  these 
monsters  have  invaded  America. 

The  eldest  Martin  brother, 
Robert  Wallace,  wa,s  originally 
trained  as  a stonecutter  in  the 
medieval  manner.  This  was  the 
age  of  the  Gothic  revival,  of 
Hugo’s  Hunchback  of  Notre 
Dame,  of  grotesques  leering  out 
of  dim  church  windows.  He 
wrote,  “My  daydreams  and  my 
nightly  visions  teem  with  Gothic, 
a very  forest  of  glistening  spires 
. . . Through  loopholes  which 
barely  disturbed  the  gloom  within 
I have  seen  strings  of  sleeping 


Photographs  by 

Scott  Hyde 

THE  MARTIN 
BROTHERS,  FOUR 
VICTORIAN  ENGLISH 
POTTERS,  CREATED 
A GROTESQUE 
MENAGERIE 
OF  'BOOBIES, 
BOOJUMS, 

AND  SNARKS/ 

bats  and  in  darksome  chambers 
found  quaint  carvings  never 
intended  to  see  the  light.” 

He  began  producing  his 
strange  ceramics  in  Fulham, 
London,  in  1873,  and  within 
several  years  the  Martin 
Brothers  Pottery,  relocated  in 
Southall,  Middlesex,  was 
fashioning  pitchers  that 
resembled  faces,  tobacco  jars 


that  Ipoked  like  birds,  and  odd- 
shaped figurines  that  nobody 
could  quite  compare  to  anything. 
Historians  consider  them  the 
first  real  artworks  to  come  from 
an  English  pottery  of  their  time. 

But  despite  the  enthusiasm 
of  Pre-Raphaelite  artists  such  as 
Edward  Burne-Jones  and  Dante 
Gabriel  Rossetti,  their  wonder 
monstrosities  went  unloved  for 
many  years.  The  Martins  could 
rarely  afford  the  best  clay,  and 
could  only  fire  up  their  kiln  twice 
a year.  Often  they  couldn’t  bear 
to  part  with  favorite  pieces  and 
refused  to  sell  them.  In  1903,  a 
fire  destroyed  their  show  in 
London’s  Brownlow  Street,  along 
with  two  years’  worth  of  work. 

In  1910  Charles  died  in  an 
insane  asylum.  In  1915  Edwin 
died  of  a horrible  facial  cancer. 

■A  sister  died  of  a monkey’s  bite, 
and  Walter  died  of  a blood  clot, 
caused  when  he  innocently 
banged  his  elbow  while  filling  the 
kiln. 

The  work  of  these  tortured 
lives  is  now  on  display  in  a show 


35 


Fantasy  in  Clay 


entitled  “Boobies,  Boojums,  and 
Snarks:  The  Ceramic  Curiosities 
of  the  Martin  Brothers,” 
assembled  by  New  York  gallery 
owner  Todd  Volpe.  From  his 
own  gallery  the  show  moved  to 
the  Delaware  Art  Museum,  and 
from  May  8 to  Jime  30  it  can  be 
seen  at  Ae  Everson  Museum  in 
Syracuse,  New  York. 

What  was  once  unloved  is 
now  highly  valued  indeed.  Rita 
Reif,  in  the  New  York  Times, 
hailed  the  exhibit  as  “a 
memorable,  highly  imaginative 
show,”  and  the  various  pieces  of 
Martin-ware,  as  it  has  come  to 
be  known,  fetch  enormous  prices 
from  collectors.  One  of  the 
Martins’  birds  recently  sold  for 
nearly  fourteen  thousand  dojjars. 

‘ Like  the  Martin  brothers 
themselves,  modem  art  lovers 
clearly  have  a taste  for  the 
extraordinary  and  the  bizarre. 


Below:  His  master’s  voice?  This 
quizzical  canine,  lop  ears  and  all,  is 
one  of  the  Martin  brothers’  gentlest 
creations. 


According  to  mystical  tradition,  it’s  I 
said,  humans  who  commit  the  sin  of  ; 
impatience  are  reborn  as  snails  ...  | 

or  perhaps  even  as  snail-like  ceramic  I 
watering  pots.  i 


Above:  Like  anyone  else,  monsters 
like  to  stay  out  late  once  in  a while. 
And  like  anyone  else,  they  have  their 
irate  wives  to  deal  with  when  they 
finally  return  home. 


Right:  “Guilty  . . . (cough  cough) 

. . . Guilty!  . . . (ahen)  . . . 

GUILTY!  ...  All  right,  bailiff,  I’m 
ready.  Send  in  the  first  case.”  This 
irascible-looking  English  judge, 
complete  with  wig,  might  almost 
have  stepped  out  of  a Dickens  novel. 


Below:  You  can  fool  some  of  the 
creatures  some  of  the  time  . . . but 
if  you  try  to  fool  this  one,  you’ll 
find  out  that  those  talons  aren’t 
just  for  traction.  Bird-shaped 
tobacco  jars  with  expressions  ranging 
from  the  comic  to  the  sinister  were 
the  Martin  brothers’-  most  popular 
item. 


Left:  In  Greek  mythology,  Cerberus 
was  the  three-headed  dog  who 
guarded  the  entrance  to  Hades.  In 
the  Martins’  version,  the  three  heads 
clearly  do  not  get  along. 


Above:  Hollywood  sources  tell  us 
that  this  amiable-looking  fellow  is  up 
for  the  starring  role  in  Son  of  The 
Blob.  Most  of  the  Martins’  pieces 
represent  birds,  dogs,  or  other  real- 
life  species,  but  this  figure, 
amorphous  yet  expressive,  belongs 
solely  to  the  world  of  fantasy. 


Above:  “I’ve  just  had  the  most 
delicious  lunch.  I wish  I could 
remember  his  name.”  Smiling  with 
evil  satisfaction,  this  well-fed-looking 

creature an  amalgam  of  simian, 

canine,  human,  and  batrachian— 
seems  unperturbed  by  the  world’s 
low  opinion  of  English  cooking. 


Left:  'The  eyes  are  so  lifelike  you’d 
almost  swear  . . . Wait  a minute 

...  In  the  dim  light  of  a Victorian 
parlor,  this  alanningly  realistic  face 
might  have  startled  many  an 
unsuspecting  matron. 


“My  dear,  you  look  ravishing.  In 
fact,  good  enough  to  eat!”  The 

comic  quality  of  the  Martin  brothers’ 
creations  belies  the  poverty,  misery, 
and  madness  that  bedeviled  the  four 
brothers’  lives. 


Above:  It’s  hard  to  imagine  a 
Victorian  family  actually  using  this  as 
a cookie  jar.  Like  the  other  Martin 
brothers  pieces,  in  fact,  its  purpose 
was  more  aesthetic  than  utilitarian. 


Right:  Striking  a pose  reminiscent 
of  a curbside  derelict,  this  pagan 
figure,  two  thousand  years  from 
home,  seems  to  have  fallen  on  hard 
times. 


39 


Fantasy  in  Clay 


Left:  Known  as  “Wally  birds”  after 
Robert  Wallace  Martin,  their 
designer,  the  Martins’  tobacco  jars 
wear  unnervingly  human  expressions. 
They  are,  in  fact,  caricatures  in  clay, 
poking  fun  at  human  foibles— and 
sometimes  at  actual  contemporaries 
such  as  Gladstone  and  Disraeli. 


Below:  Nanook  of  Northumbria? 

This  foot-high  piteher  in  the  form  of 
a fur-clad  Eskimo  seems  to  relish  the 
warmth  of  an  English  fireside. 


Above:  Birds  do  it.  Bees  do  it. 

Even  creatures  just  like  these  do 

it.  These  grotesque  dogs,  reminiscent 
of  ancient  Chinese  porcelains,  make 
an  inseparable  pair. 


Left:  He  claims  to  be  a frog  prince. 
Any  volunteers  for  kiss-and-tell? 


“Oh,  yes,  he’s  very  fond  of 
children.  Lamb  chops,  too.’’ 


Anniversary 

Dinner 

by  DJ.  Pass 


A MODERN  AMERICAN  CAUTIONARY  TALE 
ABOUT  ONIONS,  MARIJUANA,  AND  THE  GENERATION  GAP. 


The  late  afternoon  sun  came  through  the  cafe 
curtains  on  the  kitchen  windows  and  fell 
warmly  on  Henry’s  1)ack.  This  was  the  time 
of  day  he  felt  most  comfortable.  And  most  thankful: 
as  . he  sat  at  the  table  and  watched  Elinor  put  the 
finishing  touches  on  their  dinner,  he  never  failed  to 
think  how  fortunate  they  had  been.  Fortunate  to 
have  each  other,  to  have  lived  so  comfortably  and  so 
happily  together. 

“Here  you  are,  dear.”  Elinor  set  the  plate  of 
stew  down  in  front  of  him  and  wiped  her  hands  on 
her  apron.  “I  hope  you  like  it.” 

“Like  it?”  Henry  smiled.  “Fve  liked  it  for  forty 
years  now.  I don’t  see  why  I wouldn’t  like  it 
tonight.”  Elinor  smiled  back.  Her  soft  gray  curls, 
rosy  face,  and  gold-rimmed  glasses  made  her  look 
like  a grandmother— a very  pretty  grandmother. 

“Forty-two,”  she  corrected  him.  “Forty-three 
on  the  third  of  next  month.” 

“Another  anniversary?  They  seem  to  come  so 
close  together.”  Henry  reached  across  the  table  and 
put  his  hand  on  Elinor’s.  “I  guess  that’s  because  I’ve 
been  so  happy.” 

“You’re  awfully  sentimental  tonight.” 

“And  you’re  blushing.” 

Elinor  slapped  his  hand.  “Eat  your  stew.” 
Henry  took  a bite  of  the  stew.  Elinor  was  a 
consummate  cook,  and  the  stew  was  just  as  good  as 
it  had  been  forty-odd  years  ago.  It  was  perfect,  in 
fact,  with  the  minor  exception  of  the  onions. 

“How  is  it,  dear?” 

“Couldn’t  be  better.”  Henry  grinned.  “Perfect 
as  always.” 

“Good.  What  would  you  like  to  do  to  celebrate 
our  anniversary  this  year?” 

“I  haven’t  thought  about  it.  Have  any  ideas?” 
“Well,  I thought  we  could  have  a special  din- 
ner at  home,  just  the  two  of  us.” 

“The  two  of  us?”  Henry  laughed. 


“In  a sense.”  Elinor  smiled.  “You  liked  the 
goulash  I made  last  year  so  well.” 

“Yes,  indeed  I did.  I recall  you  made  so  much 
that  we  spent  the  whole  next  day  packaging  the  left- 
overs up  for  the  freezer.” 

“A  year  of  goulash  . . . not  that  it  wasn’t 
delightful  goulash  ...” 

“Oh,  I didn’t  mean  I’d  make  it  again!  No,  I 
was  thinking  about  something  with  a burgundy  sauce 
and  bay  leaves.”  Elinor’s  eyes  became  thoughtful.  It 
was  an  expression  Henry  loved  to  see  on  her.  It 
made  him  think  of  an  artist  ha'dng  a vision. 

“Sounds  terrific!” 

“Everything  but  the  meat  is  in  the  garden. 
The  mushrooms  are  doing  \rell.  Some  carrots, 
onions—” 

“About  the  onions  ...”  Henry  began. 

“Yes?”  Elinor  smiled  sweetly.  “What  about 
them,  Henry?” 

“Ah  ...”  Henry’s  courage  failed  him.  “I  think 
we  ought  to  harvest  them  earlier  this  year.  They 
were  a bit  sharp  last  season.” 

“Of  course.” 

“And  now,  why  don’t  we  take  our  port  out  to 
the  hot  tub?  There’s  a nip  in  the  air,  perfect  night 
for  watching  the  stars  come  out.” 

“You’re  much  too  romantic  for  a man  your 
age.”  Elinor  laughed.  “I  don’t  know  how  much 
longer  I can  keep  up  with  you.” 

On  Saturday  Henry  got  out  the  old  Plymouth 
and  they  drove  down  into  town.  Since  their 
retirement,  Henry  and  Elinor  had  stayed  on 
their  farm  in  the  hills  as  much  as  possible.  There  was 
little  to  entice  them  away  from  home.  The  closeness 
of  their  relationship  had  made  close  friends  un- 
necessary, and  they  had  no  living  relatives.  Life  on 
the  farm  was  so  nearly  self-sufiacient  that  they  only 
made  one  trip  a month  into  to^vn.  These  excursions 


42 


Illustration  by  Robert  Morello 


were  occasions  for  neither  pleasure  nor  pain,  simply 
something  that  had  to  be  done.  Ten  minutes  at  the 
hardware  store,  half  an  hour  at  the  supermarket, 
and  they  were  back  on  the  main  road  out  of  town. 

There  were  hitchhikers  all  along  the  highway, 
just  as  there  always  were  on  the  weekend.  Henry 
eyed  them  as  they  jjassed,  ultimately  giving  each  a 
disapproving  frown. 

When  they  were  within  a few  miles  of  the 
turn-off  that  led  up  into  the  hills,  Henry  spotted  a 
girl  sitting  by  the  road  with  her  thumb  half-heartedly 
up. 

“Look  at  that,  Elinor.  Can’t  be  more  than 
twenty  years  old.” 

Elinor  pushed  her  glasses  up  her  nose  and 
peered  at  the  girl.  “Not  even  that  old.  What’s  a 
young  girl  like  that  doing  out  on  the  road?  It  certain- 
ly isn’t  safe.” 

“What  do  you  think?” 

“Oh,  yes,  Heni'y.  You  must  definitely  stop  and 
pick  her  up.” 

Henry  eased  the  Plymouth  delicately  off  the 
road  just  past  the  gii*!.  She  jumped  up  and  ran  to  the 
car.  As  she  came  up  alongside  the  car  she  stopped, 
peered  in  at  Henry  and  Elinor,  and  broke  into  a big 
grin. 

“Wow!  Thanks,  a lot!”  She  threw  her  pack  into 
the  back  seat  and  sktmmed  the  door  shut  behind  her. 

“Glad  to  help,”  Henry  said. 

“Especially  a young  girl,”  Elinor  added.  “Isn’t 
it  dangerous  for  you  to  be  out  hitchhiking?” 

“No,  I’m  really  careful  who  I ride  with.  I’ve 
been  sitting  there  for  over  an  hour  because  I didn’t 
like  the  looks  of  the  people  who  stopped  for  me. 


That’s  why  I was  so  glad  when  you  stopped.  I feel  a 
lot  safer  with  a couple  like  you.” 

“You  mean  we’re  too  old  to  be  dangerous?” 
Henry  teased  her.  “No,  don’t  be  embarrassed.  It 
works  both  ways.  I never  pick  up  hitchhikers,  but, 
well,  you  remind  me  of  ©ur  granddaughter  so  much. 
I just  hated  to  see  you  sitting  on  the  side  of  the 
road.  You  don’t  know  what  kind  of  fiend  might  pick 
you  up.” 

“Yeah,  I guess  there  are  a lot  of  fiends  on  the 
road.” 

“Where  are  you  going,  dear?”  Elinor  asked. 

“I  wanted  to  get  to  Springfield  tonight,  but  I 
don’t  think  I’m  going  to  make  it.  It’ll  be  dark  in  a 
couple  of  hours.” 

“But  what  if  you  don’t  get  a ride?  Where  will 
you  stay  the  night?” 

The  girl  shrugged. 

“Drat  it!” 

“What’s  wrong,  Henry?” 

“We  forgot  to  get  any  tea  at  the  market.” 

“That’s  all  right,  dear.  You  can  run  in  at  that 
little  store  where  we  turn  off  the  highway.” 

“Good  idea,  Elinor.”  In  a few  minutes  they 
had  reached  the  turnoff  and  Henry  pulled  up  to  the 
store. 

“Wow,  I just  can’t  believe  you  two,”  the  girl 
said,  after  Henry  left  the  car. 

“Why,  whaf  do  you  mean?” 

“You  and  your  husband.  You’re  just  the  ar- 
chetypal grandparent  types.  You  ought  to  be  making 
tv  commercials  for  apple  pie  and  lemonade.” 

“Are  we  really  like  that?”  Elinor  marveled.  “I 
certainly  never  thought  of  myself  as  a grandmother 


43 


Anniversary  Dinner 


type,  though  I suppose  I am.  We  have  a grand-  j 
daughter  about  your  age.  How  old  are  you?”  j 

“Nineteen.”  Elinor  didn’t  believe  it,  and  the ! 
girl’s  blush  betrayed  her  lie.  i 

“Nineteen!  Well,  you’re  a lovely  young  woman,  | 
if  you  don’t  mind  my  saying  so  ...  I was  just  now  ■ 
thinking,  wouldn’t  it  be  better  if  you  went  with  us  up  ; 
to  our  place  for  the  night?  It  isn’t  far,  and  you  can  | 
start  out  for  Springfield  in  the  morning.”  ' 

“Really?  I’d  love  that!  The  truth  is,  I was  get-  i 
ting  pretty  scared  about  what  I’d  do  after  dark.” 

“We’ll  enjoy  having  you.  We  don’t  get  much  ' 
i company.” 

] “What  about  your  husband?  Will  it  be  all  right ' 

! with  him?”  I 

I “Don’t  worry  about  Henry;  he’s  the  kindest ; 

man  in  the  world.”  j 

Of  course,  Henry  would  be  delighted  to  have  i 
her  stay  the  night  with  them.  He  would  have  offered 
himself,  but  he  had  felt  awkward  about  it.  It  would 
♦ be  good  to  have  a young  person  around  the  house 
again. 

And  she  loved  the  farm.  “I’ve  never  eaten  any 
grapes  like  these,”  she  told  Elinor  between  seeds. 

“They’re  wine  grapes.  Henry’s  done  wonders 
getting  them  to  grow  here.  We  make  all  our  own 
wine.  And  over  here  is  the  garden.” 

“This  is  really  too  much.  Do  you  grow  all  your 
own  food,  too?” 

“Almost.  We  have  to  buy  a few  things,  but 
we’re  very  proud  of  our  near  self-sufficiency.” 

“Do  you  have  animals?” 

“We  have  some  chickens  and  goats  for  eggs 
and  milk,  but  we  found  it  was  cheaper  not  to  raise 
our  own  meat.” 

“You  must  have  everything  here.” 

“We  even' grow  our  own  marijuana.” 

The  girl  was  out  of  expletives;  she  could  only 
stare  at  Elinor  with  bulging  eyes. 

“I’m  certainly  not  being  a good  hostess,  am 
I?”  Elinor  clucked.  “Would  you  like  some?  It’s  dry- 
ing in  the  barn;  you  can  have  some  before  dinner.” 

“You  folks  are  too  much!  Nobody’s  going  to 
believe  this.” 

“We  try  to  live  comfortably,  and  I suppose  we 
indulge  ourselves.  But  what  else  is  there  in  life, 
especially  at  our  age?” 

“At  any  age.” 

“Hmmm.  Now  you  come  over  here  and  relax  a 
bit  before  dinner.” 

“A  hot  tub!” 

“Henry  built  it  himself.”  Elinor  couldn’t  keep 
a note  of  pride  out  of  her  voice.  “It’s  rather  small, 
but  we  like  the  coziness.  You  can  sit  here  and  watch 
the  sun  go  down  in  the  hills.  We  do  it  almost  every 
night.” 

The  girl  undressed  and  slid  into  the  warm 


water.  Inside  the  tub  was  a little  shelf  with  a built-in  ; 
hookah.  Imagine,  she  thought,  those  two  old  people 
sitting  out  here  in  their  tub  every  night,  stoned  out 
of  their  heads  and  watching  the  sunset. 

“Here  you  are,  my  dear.”  Elinor  stuffed  the 
hookah  and  lit  it.  “I  brought  ycu  some  wine,  too.  I 
hope  you  like  sherry.” 

“This  is  really  too  much.  But  I don’t  want  to  j 
hog  your  tub  ...”  I 

“Nonsense.  We’re  thrilled  to  have  someone  to  j 
cater  to.  You  relax,  and  I’ll  gather  some  vegetables  j 
for  dinner.”  : 

The  hills  turned  red,  then  purple.  As  she  ! 
watched  the  colors,  the  girl  thought  about  how  she 
had  been  worried  about  spending  the  night  on  the 
side  of  the  road.  She  giggled  asi  she  thought  of  her 
friends.  They  really  wouldn’t  believe  it  when  she  told 
them  about  this  weird  old  couple  and  their  Shangri-la 
in  the  hills. 

“Would  you  like  some  vegetables  to  nibble 
on?”  She  looked  up  to  see  Elinor  standing  beside  the 
tub  with  an  apron  full  of  vegetables.  “Maybe  some 
celery,  or  some  carrots?  I’ll  just  drop  them  in  the  tub 
and  you  can  pick  what  you  like,” 

“Sure,  drop  ’em  in.” 

“Shall  I turn  the  water  uj)  a bit?  It’s  starting 
to  get  chilly.” 

“Sure,  jack  it  up  some.  Arid  maybe  you’d  hand 
me  a shingle  off  your  house.  It  is  made  of  ginger- 
bread, isn’t  it?” 

Elinor  walked  away  trailing  silvery  laughter. 

“So  warm,”  the  girl  murmured.  “Womb  ...” 

Henry  grunted  as  he  rolled  a cask  of  wine  up 
to  the  tub.  “I’ve  got  to  get  some  smaller  casks,”  he 
muttered.  “I’m  getting  too  old  to  be  manhandling 
these.”  He  thought  momentarily  how  it  was  a shame 
that  they  really  didn’t  have  anj-  children,  or  grand- 
children for  that  matter.  He  could  have  used  the 
help. 

“You’re  not  too  old  for  anything,  Henry.” 
Elinor  dropped  another  apron-load  of  vegetables  into 
the  tub.  “Here  you  are.  Some  nice  mushrooms,  some 
onions  ...” 

The  girl  didn’t  bother  to  answer;  her  eyes  were 
getting  glassy. 

“Shall  I turn  the  water  up?”  Hearing  nothing 
from  the  girl,  Elinor  turned  the  thermostat  all  the 
way  up. 

“Elinor?” 

“Yes,  Henry?” 

“In  all  the  years  we’ve  been  married,  you’ve 
fixed  a lot  of  meals  for  me—” 

“Thousands.” 

“Elinor.”  He  looked  into  her  bright  eyes  and 
hoped  her  feelings  wouldn’t  be  hurt.  Both  a whine 
and  a tremble  crept  into  his  voice.  “Elinor,  you 
always  put  the  onions  in  too  early.”  iS 


Illustration  bv  Annie  Allennan 


HUNDREDS  PUf^SUED  HIM— AND  THE  ONLY  ESCAPE  WAS  DEATH. 


he  pain  hadn’t  stopped  for  hours. 

It  seared  his  shoulder,  and  moving  was 
making  it  worse.  He  shuddered,  barely  able 
to  go  on. 

Only  an  hour  ago. 

The  family  had  been  together,  the  children 
playing  in  their  favorite  hiding  place.  Beautiful 
children,  children  of  their  own.  The  two  of  them  had 
watched  so  proudly.  They  were  lucky.  Children  were 
rare  these  days.  And  after  her  first  terror  with  the 
Dark  Ones,  having  a family  had  seemed  impossible, 

It  was  getting  bad  again. 

What  did  they  use  that  made  their  spears  hurt 
so  much?  He’d  felt  it  splay  the  skin  out  when  it 
buried  itself  in  his  back.  It  was  like  no  pain  he’d  ever 
felt. 

She  and  the  children  had  escaped.  He  wasn’t 
sure  where.  North,  perhaps.  Away  from  where  the 
Dark  Ones  could  try  and  murder  them. 

He  knew  the  children  must  be  tired,  wherever 
they  were.  To  be  chased  by  the  Dark  Ones  would  be 
a nightmare  for  them. 

He,  too,  was  tired.  But  he  knew  he  had  to  keep 
moving. 

Night. 

His  eyes  ached.  He  couldn’t  see  far  ahead. 

The  Dark  Ones  might  turn  back.  He  knew  they 
were  fidghtened  of  the  blackness.  It  could  be  his 
chance. 

He  stopped  to  breathe  for  a moment,  and  the 
cooling  air  soothed  inside. 

But  seconds  later,  he  screamed. 

The  Dark  Ones  had  shot  again.  The  thing  was 
twisting  in  his  neck,  and  he  shrieked  for  it  to  stop, 

4* 


He  felt  as  if  he  were  going  to  lose  consciousness  as  it 
tore  and  burned  inside. 

She  and  the  children. 

He  had  to  keep  moving  and  see  them  once 
more.  He  loved  them  so.  He  had  to  get  to  them 
before  the  Dark  Ones  found  him.  Keep  moving,  he 
told  himself. 

Keep  moving. 

But  the  pain  was  spreading.  j 

He  looked  back  and  saw  the  Dark  Ones  coming  j 
closer,  shouting  with  glee.  He  couldn’t  breathe.  I’m  ; 
growing  weaker,  he  realized.  Slowing  down.  \ 

He  began  to  cry.  He  didn’t  want  to  die  without 
seeing  her  and  the  children  one  last  time.  But  the 
pain  was  getting  worse. 

He  pleaded  for  someone  to  help. 

Then,  suddenly,  he  felt  it:  a rupturing  explo- 
sion in  his  shoulder,  and  everything  went  black. 

A thin  rain  fell  as  the  laughing  voices  neared 
and  circled  slowly,  looking  at  v'hat  they  had  done. 

The  body  had  been  ripped  and  shredded  and 
oily  blood  splashed  everywhere,  dyeing  everything  it 
touched. 

As  they  worked,  joking  among  themselves, 
they  didn’t  notice  her  watching. 

With  the  children  there  beside  her,  she  saw 
them  haul  her  mate  upward,  and  began  to  weep,  i 
Then,  moaning  a cry  of  eternal  loss  which  rang  to  ■ 
the  depths,  she  and  the  children  plunged  their  great 
bodies  back  into  the  bloody  sea. 

As  they  fled,  seeking  the  safety  of  the  deeper 
waters,  the  echoes  of  their  cries  were  answered 
by  the  haunted,  faraway  responses  of  the  few  who 
remained.  iS 


Photos  © 1981  by  Kim  Gottlieb 


A FINAL  INTERVIEW  WITH  SCIENCE  FICTION'S  BOLDEST  VISIONARY, 
WHO  TALKS  CANDIDLY  ABOUT  BLADE  RUNNER,  INNER  VOICES, 
AND  THE  TEMPTATIONS  OF  HOLLYWOOD 


i [Editor’s  note:  When  John  Boonstra  story  “We  Can.  Reynember  It  for  Ymi  from  the  possibility  of  authentic  being; 

' conducted  the  following  interview  with  Wholesale,  ” fresh  attention  is  certain  to  recognize  the  human  among  the  an- 

- Philip  K.  Dick,  he  never  thought  that  to  come  to  Dick’s  thirty  years  of  droids.  His  genius  weds  a core  of 

■-  it  might  be  Dick’s  last.  Dick  himself  outstanding  work.  memorable  characters  to  paradoxical 

■ was  in  excellent  spirifei  and  was  look-  Among  his  peers  he  has  never  been  plots  rich  with  philosophical  inquiry, 

; ing  forward  to  the  pr<;miere  of  Blade  underrated.  “Dick  has  been  . . . but  a brief  description  can’t  explain 

I Runner,  based  on  ont;  of  his  novels,  casting  illumination  by  the  kleig  lights  how  entertaining  this  eclectic  mix  in- 

; with  considerable  excitement.  Boon-  of  his  imagination  on  a terra  in-  variably  proves  to  be. 
stra’s  introduction— wliich  we’ve  left  cognita  of  staggering  dimensions,”  In  the  late  1960s,  Dick  showed  in- 
unaltered— reflects  its  subject’s  wrote  Harlan  Ellison  in  Dangerous  creasing  interest  in  drug-induced 

optimism.  In  late  Febiniary,  however.  Visions.  Brian  Aldiss  has  favorably  altered  states  of  consciousness,  but  The 

Dick  suffered  a massive  stroke;  and  compared  Dick’s  “ghastly  humor”  to  Three  Stigmata  of  Palmer  Eldritch, 

now,  as  we  go  to  press,  we’ve  learned  Dickens  and  Kafka.  And  Norman  often  cited  as  LSD-based,  was  com- 

that  he  has  died  ui  a California  Spinrad  states  the  case  as  plainly  as  pleted  before  Dick’s  minimal  exposure 

hospital  on  the  morning  of  March  2.  possible  in  his  introduction  to  the  to  hallucinogens.  Similarly,  some  of 

His  death  makes  the  following  inter-  Gregg  Press  edition  of  Dr.  Blood-  Dick’s  earlier  novels  (The  Cosmic  Pup- 

view  all  the  more  poignant,  particular-  money:  “Fifty  or  erne  hundred  years  pets.  Eye  in  the  Sky)  presage  his  con- 

ly  the  hopeful  note  on  which  it  ends.]  from  now,  Dick  may  well  be  recognized  troversial  visionary  episodes  of  recent 

in  retrospect  as  the  greatest  American  years— episodes  which  he’s  described  in 

s Philip  K.  Dick  may  be  a household  novelist  of  the  second  half  of  the  twen-  print  and  which  have  formed  the  basis 

word— in  Hollywood,  at  least— by  tieth  century.”  jof  his  recent  fiction.  He  holds  that  a 

year’s  end.  With  his  sf  novel  Do  From  his  first  book  (Solar  Lottery)  ' higher  consciousness— possibly  the 
Androids  Dream  of  Electric  Sheep?  through  his  most  recent  (The  Divine  unleashed  right  hemisph^e  of  his  own 

filmed  by  Ridley  Scott  as  Blade  Rim-  Invasion),  Philip  Kendred  Dick  has  brain,  possibly  an  alien  or  angelic  en- 

ner,  and  with  the  Disney  studio  focused  on  the  struggle— in  all  walks  of  tity— seized  temporary  control  of  his 

budgeting  an  equally  large  sum  for  the  life,  in  every  occupation— to  see  beyond  body  and  effected  lasting  changes  in  his 

forthcoming  Total  Recall,  based  on  his  the  illusions  that  separate  mankind  life.  It  provided  him  with  verifiable  in- 


Philip  K.  Dick 


formation  that,  in  one  case,  diagnosed 
an  unsuspected  birth  defect  in  his 
young  son. 

Dick’s  thirty  four  published  novels 
and  six  short  story  collections  are  so 
uniformly  good  that  it  seems  a shame 
to  single  out  any.  But  if  I had  to  be 
marooned  with  a halfdhzen.  I’d  take 
Dr.  Bloodmoney,  about  nuclear  war 
and  the  psionic  abilities  of  a homun- 
culus called  Happy;  Martian  Time-Slip, 
where  daily  life  on  the  miserable  Mars 
colony  is  upended  by  an  autistic  child; 
Time  out  of  Joint,  featuring  the  mar- 
velously named  Ragle  Gumm,  un- 
knowing linchpin  of  Western  civiliza- 
tion; Confessions  of  a Crap  Artist,  a 
mainstream  novel  of  devastating  love 
glimpsed  through  the  funhouse-mirror 
mind  of  one  glorious  fool;  and  VALIS 
and  The  Divine  Invasion,  which 
describe  God’s  return  to  this  globe  after 
His— and/or  Hers— puzzling  absemce. 

VALIS  is  set  in  a present-day 
reality  identical  to  our  own,  except 
for  its  protgonist’s  contention  that  “the 
Roman  Empire  never  ended.”  Such 
revelations  send  Horselover  Fat,  who 
is  either  mad  or  enlightened,  after  the 
new  Messiah— a two-year-old  girl.  The 
closest  this  tour  de  force  comes  to  con- 
ventional sf  is  its  account  of  a film 
that  contains  encoded  information  on 
the  Messiah’s  whereabouts;  the  entire 
book  grew  from  a draft  which  was  that 
movie’s  plot.  The  Divine  Invasion 
brings  the  themes  of  VALIS  into  a 
recognizable  sf  future  of  spacecraft  and 
social  changes.  The  astual  God  of  the 
Old  Testament  appears  as  a young  boy 
who  must  lose  his  amnesia  (a  concept 
coded  anamnesis,  crucial  to  Dick’s  re- 
cent work)  to  defeat  the  powers  that 
hold  the  earth  in  illusion.  Along  for  the 
ride  are  the  boy’s  all-too-human 
“father,”  Herb;  the  prophet  Elijah; 
and  a pop  singer  suspiciously  similar 
to  the  author’s  favorite,  Linda 
Ronstadt. 

But  it  seems  a shame  to  single  out 
just  half  a dozen  of  Dick’s  navels.  I 
can’t  exclude  Ubik’s  world  of  devolving 
forms,  or  the  Hugo-winning  novel  of 
the  Axis  victory.  The  Man  in  the  High 
Castle,  in  which  the  eastern  half  of  the 
United  States  is  controlled  by  Nazi 
Germany  and  the  western  half  by 
Japan.  Or  Clans  of  the  Alphane  Moon. 
Or  Dick’s  bitter  eulogy  to  the  drug 
culture,  A Scanner  Darkly.  And  as 
Phil  Dick  is  only  fifty-three,  there  is 
the  promise  of  more  to  come.  He  may 
just  be  hitting  his  prime. 

4t 


TZ:  Your  forthcoming  novel.  The 
Transmigration  of  Timothy  Archer,  is 
essentially  a non-sf  literary  work 
based  on  the  mysterious  death  in  the 
desert  of  your  friend  Bishop  James 
Pike,  and  I’ve  been  told  that  you 
wrote  it  in  lieu  of  doing  a novelization 
of  the  Blade  Runner  screenplay.  Why 
did  you  choose  to  write  a book  with 
openly  religious  themes  instead  of  a 
lucrative,  all-but-certain  bestseller? 
Dick:  The  amount  of  money  involved 
would  have  been  very  great,  and  the 
film  people  offered  to  cut  us  in  on  the 
merchandising  rights.  But  they  re- 
quired a suppression  of  the  original 
novel,  Do  Androids  Dream  of  Electric 
Sheep?,  in  favor  of  the  qommercialized 
novelization  based  on  the  screenplay. 
My  agency  computed  that  I would  ac- 
crue, conservatively,  $400,000  if  I did 
the  novelization.  In  contrast,  if  we 
went  the  route  of  rereleasing  the 
original  novel,  I would  make  about 
$12,500. 

Blade  Runner’s  people  were  put- 
ting tremendous  pressure  on  us  to  do 
the  novelization— or  to  allow  someone 
else  to  come  in  and  do  it,  like  Alan 
Dean  Foster.  But  we  felt  that  the 
original  was  a good  novel.  And  also,  I 
did  not  want  to  write  what  I call  the 
“El  Cheapo”  novelization.  I did  want 
to  do  the  Timothy  Archer  novel. 

So  we  stuck  to  our  guns,  and  at 


one  point  Blade  Runner  became  so 
cold-blooded  they  threatened  to 
withdraw  the  logo  rights.  We  wouldn’t 
be  able  to  say,  “The  novel  on  which 
Blade  Runner  is  based.”  We’d  be 
unable  to  use  any  stills  from  the  film. 

Finally  we  came  to  an  agreement 
with  them.  We  are  adamant  about 
rereleasing  the  original  novel.  And  I 
have  done  The  Transmigration  of 
Timothy  Archer. 

Now,  the  payment  on  that  novel 
is  very  small.  It’s  only  $7,500,  which  is 
just  about  minimum  these  days.  It’s 
because  in  the  mainstream  field  I am 
essentially  a novice  writer.  I’m  not 
known.  And  I’m  being  paid  on  the 
scale  that  a new  writer  coming  into 
the  field  would  be  paid  on.  The  con- 
tract is  a two-book  contract,  and 
there’s  a science  fiction  novel  in  it. 


And  it  pays  exactly  three  times  for  the 
science  fiction  v/hat  is  being  paid  for 
Timothy  Archer. 

TZ:  Have  you  begun  the  sf  novel? 
Dick:  I’ve  done  two  different  outlines. 
I’ll  probably  wind  up  laminating  them 
together  and  m;iking  one  book  out  of 
it,  which  is  what  I like  to  do,  develop 
independent  outlines  and  then  lam- 
inate them  int;o  one  book.  That’s 
where  I get  my  multiple  plot  ideas.  I 
really  enjoy  doing  that,  a paste-up  job. 
A synthesis,  in  other  words. 

This  second  novel  is  not  due  until 
January  1,  1983,  so  I’ve  got  time. 
Right  now  I’m  just  physically  too  tired 
to  do  the  typing.  It  looks  like  it’s  go- 
ing to  be  a good  book,  too.  It’s  called 
The  Owl  in  Daylight 

Simon  and  Schuster  wanted  Ar- 
cher first,  and  I wanted  to  do  it  first. 
Of  course,  I may  find  that  I made  a 
very  great  error,  because  it  may  not 
turn  out  to  be  a successful  book.  It 
may  be  that  I’ve  lost  the  ability  to 
write  a literary  novel,  if  indeed  I ever 
had  the  ability  to  do  so.  It’s  been  over 
twenty  years  since  I’ve  written  a non- 
science-fiction  novel,  and  it’s  very 
problematical  vrhether  I can  write 
mainstream,  literary-quality-type  fic- 
tion. This  is  definitely  an  unproven 
thing,  an  X factor.  I may  find  that 
I’ve  turned  dow;.i  $400,000  and  wound 
up  with  nothing. 


TZ:  I don’t  consider  VALIS  science 
fiction.  It  could  have  been  published  as 
a mainstream  novel  and  gotten  who 
knows  what  kind  of  attention  that 
way.  I’m  sure  it  got  more  response 
wift  its  sf  wrapping  than  it  would 
have  otherwise.  But  it  is  quite  literary 
itself;  marginal  sf,  at  best. 

Dick:  I would  ca.ll  VALIS  a picaresque 
novel,  experimental  science  fiction. 
The  Divine  Invasion  has  a very  con- 
ventional structiu’e  for  science  fiction, 
almost  science  fantasy;  no  experimen- 
tal devices  of  any  kind.  Timothy  Ar- 
cher is  in  no  way  science  fiction;  it 
starts  out  the  ds.y  John  Lennon  is  shot 
and  then  goes  into  flashbacks.  And  yet 
the  three  do  form  a trilogy  con- 
stellating around  a basic  theme.  This 
is  something  that  is  extremely  impor- 
tant to  me  in  terms  of  the  organic 


'7  may  find  that  Vve  turned  down 
$400,000  and  wound  up  with  nothing. 


development  of  my  ideas  and  preoc- 
cupations in  my  writing.  So  for  me  to 
derail  myself  and  do  that  cheapo 
novelization  of  Blade  Runner— a com- 
pletely commercialized  thing  aimed  at 
twelve-year-olds— would  have  probably 
been  disastrous  to  me  artistically. 
Although  financially,  as  my  agent  ex- 
plained it,  I would  literally  be  set  up 
for  life.  I don’t  think  my  agent  figures 
I’m  going  to  live  much  longer. 

It’s  like  Dante’s  Inferno.  A writer 
sent  to  the  Inferno  is  sentenced  to 
rewrite  all  his  novels— his  best  ones,  at 
least— as  cheapo,  twelve-year-old  hack 
stuff  for  all  eternity.  A terrible  punish- 
ment! The  fact  that  it  would  earn  me 
a lot  of  money  illuminates  the  gro- 
tesqueness of  the  situation.  When  it’s 
finally  offered  to  me,  I’m  more  or  less 
apathetic  to  the  megabucks.  I live  a 
rather  ascetic  life.  I don’t  have  any 
material  wants  and  I have  no  debts. 
My  condominium  is  paid  off,  my  car  is 
paid  off,  my  stereo  is  paid  off. 

At  least,  this  waj',  I attempt  the 
finest  book  I can  write— and  if  I fail, 
at  least  I will  have  taken  my  best  shot. 
I think  a person  must  always  take  his 
best  shot  at  everything,  whether  he 
repairs  shoes,  drives  a bus,  writes 
novels,  or  sells  fruit.  You  do  the  best 
you  can.  And  if  you  fail,  well,  you 
blame  it  on  your  motlier,  I guess. 

TZ:  How  do  you  comjDare  the  VALIS 
trilogy  to  the  rest  of  your  work? 

Dick:  I jettisoned  the  first  version  of 
VALIS,  which  was  a very  conventional 
book.  'That  version  appears  in  the 
finished  book  as  the  movie.  I cast 
around  for  a model  that  would  bring 
something  new  into  science  fiction, 
and  it  occurred  to  me  to  go  all  the 
way  back  to  the  picanjsque  novel  and 
have  my  characters  be  picaroons— 
rogues— and  write  it  in  the  first  per- 
son vernacular,  using  a rather  loose 
plot.  I feel  there’s  tremendous 
relevance  in  the  picai’esque  novel  at 
this  time.  Donleavy’s  The  Ginger  Man 
is  one;  so  is  TTie  Adventures  of  Augie 
March  by  Saul  Bellow.  I see  this  as  a 
protest  form  of  the  novel,  a repudia- 
tion of  the  more  structured  bourgeois 
novel  that  has  been  so  popular. 

I’m  reprocessing  my  own  life.  I’ve 
had  a very  interesting  ten  years  start- 
ing in  lOTO  when  my  wife  Nancy  left 
me  and  went  off  witli  a Black  Pan- 
ther, much  to  my  surpinse.  As  a result 
of  which  I hit  bottom.  I mean,  I just 
fell  into  the  gutter,  I crashed  into  the 
streets  in  shock  when  this  happened. 


"The  two  reinforce  each  other."  With  the  "bad  blood”  between  him  and  the 
studio  a thing  of  the  past,  Dick  poses  with  Blade  Runner  director  Ridley  Scott. 


I was  very  bourgeois.  I had  a wife 
and  child,  I was  buying  a house,  I 
drove  a Buick  and  wore  a suit  and  tie. 
All  of  a sudden  my  wife  left  me  and  I 
wound  up  in  the  street  with  street 
people.  And  after  I climbed  out  of 
that— which  was  ultimately  a death 
trip  on  my  part— I thought,  “Well, 
I’ve  got  some  interesting  first-hand 
material  that  I’d  like  to  write  about.  I 
will  recycle  my  own  life  in  the  terms 
of  a novel.”  Having  done  that  in  A 
Scanner  Darkly,  I was  faced  with 
what  to  do  next.  It  took  me  a long 
time  before  I felt  that  I had  what  I 
wanted. 

Now,  prior  to  that  I tended  to 
view  people  in  terms  of  the  artisan.  I 
worked  for  eight  years  in  retail.  I 
managed  one  of  die  largest  record 
stores  on  the  West  Coast  in  the  fifties, 
and  I had  worked  at  a radio  repair 
shop  when  I was  in  high  school.  I 
tended  to  view  people  in  terms  of  “the 
tv  repairman,”  “the  salesman,”  and  so 
forth.  Then  later,  as  a result  of  my 
street  experience,  I tended  to  view 


people  as  essentially  rogues.  I don’t 
mean  lovable  rogues,  I mean  un- 
scrupulous rogues  out  to  hustle  you  at 
any  moment  for  any  reason.  I found 
them  endlessly  fascinating.  And  I 
didn’t  see  people  of  this  type  ade- 
quately represented  in  fiction. 

TZ:  Sometimes  the  world  at  large 
strikes  me  as  being  an  sf  novel,  and 
not  necessarily  a pleasant  one.  I often 
have  the  feeling  that  I am  living  in  the 
future  I was  reading  about  fifteen 
years  ago.  I wonder  what  that’s  like 
fi’om  your  perspective,  having  written 
the  stuff  I was  reading  when  I was  an 
adolescent. 

Dick:  Oh,  Jesus,  I agree  with  you 
completely.  My  agent  said,  after  he 
finished  The  Transmigration  of 
Timothy  Archer,  “You  know,  in  your 
science  fiction  they  drive  things  called 
flobbles  and  quibbles,  and  in  this  one 
they  drive  Hondas— but  it’s  still  essen- 
tially a science  fiction  novel.  Although 
I can’t  explain  exactly  how." 

It’s  really  as  if  fte  world  caught 
up  with  science  fiction.  The  years 

49 


I 


Phmp  K.  Dick 


went  by  and  the  disparity,  the  tem- 
poral gap,  began  to  close  until  finally 
there  was  no  temporal  gap.  We  were 
no  longer  writing  about  the  future.  In 
a sense,  the  very  concept  of  projecting 
it  ahead  is  meaningless,  because  we 
are  there,  literally,  in  our  actual 
world.  In  1955,  when  I’d  write  a 
science  fiction  novel.  I’d  set  it  in  the 
year  2000.  I realized  around  1977  that, 
“My  God,  it’s  getting  exactly  like 
those  novels  we  used  to  write  in  the 
nineteen-fifties!” 

Everything’s  just  turning  out  to 
be  real.  That  creates  within  science 
fiction  a completely  fantastic  type  of 
novel  which  is  set  on  the  planet  “Mor- 
daria”  or  “Malefoozia”  in  another 
galaxy.  And  all  the  Malefoozians  have 
eighteen  heads,  and  sixteen  of  them 
have  a sexual  act  together.  In  other 
words,  no  connection  with  Earth,  none 
of  the  social  satire  and  commertt  you 
get  in  works  like  Kurt  Vonnegut’s 
Player  Piano.  Which  is  a perfect  ex- 
ample; you  might  just  as  well  go 
downtown  to  the  big  business  offices 
and  just  walk  in  and  sit  down,  as  read 
Player  Piano. 

TZ:  In  earlier  interviews  you  have 
described  . your  encounter,  in  1974, 
with  “a  transcendentally  rational 
mind.”  Does  this  “tutelary  spirit”  con- 
tinue to  guide  you? 

Dick:  It  hasn’t  spoken  a word  to  me 
since  I wrote  Tlie  Divine  Invasion. 
The  voice  is  identified  as  Rvah,  which 
is  the  Old  Testament  word  for  the 
Spirit  of  God.  It  speaks  in  a feminine 


voice  and  tends  to  express  statements 
regarding  the  messianic  expectation. 

It  guided  me  for  a while.  It  has 
spoken  to  me  sporadically  since  I was 
in  high  school.  I expect  that  if  a crisis 
arises  it  will  say  something  again.  It’s 
very  economical  in  what  it  says.  It 
limits  itself  to  a few  very  terse,  suc- 
cinct sentences.  I only  hear  the  voice 
of  the  spirit  when  I’m  falling  asleep  or 
waking  up.  I have  to  be  very  receptive 
to  hear  it.  It  sounds  as  though  it’s 
coming  from  millions  of  miles  away. 
TZ:  What  made  you  into  a writer? 
You  were  saying  it  wasn’t  for  the 
so 


money.  When  did  you  make  your  first 
sales,  and  how  long  were  you  writing 
before  that? 

Dick:  I started  my  first  novel  when  I 
was  thirteen  years  old.  That’s  the 
honest-to-God  truth.  I taught  myself 
to  type  and  started  my  first  novel 
when  I was  in  the  eighth  grade.  It 
was  called  Return  to  Lilliput. 

I made  my  first  sale  in  November 
of  1951,  and  my  first  stories  were 
published  in  1952.  At  the  time  I 
graduated  from  high  school  I was 
writing  regularly,  one  novel  after 
another.  None  of  which,  of  course, 
sold.  I was  living  in  Berkeley,  and  all 
the  milieu-reinforcement  there  was  for 
the  literary  stuff.  I knew  all  kinds  of 
people  who  were  doing  literary-type 
novels.  And  I knew  some  of  the  very 
fine  avant-garde  poets  in  the  Bay 
area— Robert  Duncan,  Jack  Spicer, 
Philip  Lamantia,  that  whole  crowd. 
They  all  encouraged  me  to  write,  but 
there  was  no  encouragement  to  write 
science  fiction  and  no  encouragement 
to  sell  anything.  But  I wanted  to  sell, 
and  I also  wanted  to  do  science 
fiction.  My  ultimate  dream  was 
to  be  able  to  do  both  literary  stuff  and 
science  fiction. 

Well,  it  didn’t  work  out  that  way. 
I was  reading  a lot  of  philosophy  at 
that  time.  My  wife  came  home  one 
day  from  school  and  said,  “What  is  it 
you’re  reading  again?” 

I said,  “Moses  Maimonides’  Guide 
for  the  Perplexed.  ” 

She  said,  “Yeah,  I mentioned  that 


to  my  instructor.  He  says  you’re  prob- 
ably the  only  human  being  on  the  face 
of  the  earth  who  at  this  moment  is 
reading  Moses  Maimonides.”  I was 
just  sitting  there  eating  a ham  sand- 
wich and  reading  it.  It  didn’t  strike 
me  as  odd. 

TZ:  You  mention  one  of  your  wives.  I 
know  you’ve  been  through  a couple  of 
marriages  . . . 

Dick:  At  least.  There’s  more.  I hate  to 
say  how  many— an  endless  succession 
of  divorces,  all  stemming  from 
recklessly  engaged-in  and  seized-upon 
marriages.  I still  have  a good  relation- 


ship with  my  ex-wives.  In»  fact,  my 
most  recent  ex-wife— there  are  so 
many  that  I have  to  list  them 
numerically— and  I are  very,  very 
good  friends.  I have  three  children. 
My  youngest  is  seven,  and  she  brings 
him  over  all  the  time. 

But  the  reajson  all  my  marriages 
break  up  is  I’m  so  autocratic  when  I’m 
writing.  I become  like  Beethoven: 
completely  bellicose  and  defensive  in 
terms  of  guarding  my  privacy.  It’s 
very  hard  to  live  with  me  when  I’m 
writing. 

TZ:  You’ve  said  that  many  of  the 
characters  in  your  fiction  are  thinly 
disguised  variations  of  people  you’ve 
known  personally. 

Dick:  That  is  correct. 

TZ:  What  effect  has  this  had  on  them? 
Dick:  They  hate  my  bloody  guts! 
They’d  like  to  rend  me  to  shreds!  I ex- 
pect that  someday  they’ll  all  fall  on  me 
and  beat  the  cra.p  out  of  me. 

I find  that  you  can  only  develop 
characters  basecl  upon  actual  people; 
there’s  really  no  such  thing  as  a 
character  that  springs  ex  nihilo  from 
the  brow  of  Zeus.  Tendencies  are  ex- 
tracted from  actual  people,  but  of 
course  the  people  aren’t  transferred 
intact.  This  is  not  journalism,  this  is 
fiction. 

The  most  important  thing  is  pick- 
ing up  the  speecdi  pattern,  picking  up 
the  cadence  of  aictual  spoken  English. 
That’s  the  main  thing  I look  for— the 
little  mannerisms,  the  word  choice. 
TZ:  We’ve  talked  about  your 
mainstream  writing  and  your  science 
fiction.  What  alx)ut  fantasy  writing? 
Did  you  ever  write  for  The  Twilight 
Zone? 

Dick:  No.  But  I would  have  welcomed 
the  opportunity.  I did  some  radio 
scripts  for  the  Mutual  Broadcasting 
system,  and  I wrote  fantasy-type 
things  for  them. 

I always  lie  to  myself  and  tell 
myself  that  I never  really  want  to  do 
fantasy,  but  the  record  does  not  bear 
me  out.  The  record  shows  that  my 
original  interesD  was  that  kind  of 
Twilight  Zone  fantasy,  fantasy  set  in 
the  present.  But  you  couldn’t  make  a 
living  writing  this  kind  of  stuff,  while 
you  could  make  a living  writing 
science  fiction.  In  1953  there  were 
something  like  thirteen  science  fiction 
magazines,  and  in  June  of  that  year  I 
had  stories  in  seven  of  them  simulta- 
neously—all  science  fiction.  I published 
thirty  stories  in  1953. 


''As  a result  of  my  street 
experience,  I tended  to  view  people 
as  essentially  rogues/' 


Dick  sees  the  need  for  new  forms  of  science  fiction.  ‘We  were  no  longer 
writing  about  the  future.  In  a sense,  the  very  concept  of  projecfing  It  ahead 
Is  meaningless,  because  we  are  there,  literally.  In  aur  actual  world." 


; TZ:  Why  did  you  temporarily  give  up 
• writing  at  the  end  of  that  decade? 
Dick:  By  the  year  1959  the  science  fic- 
■ tion  field  had  totally  collapsed.  The 
' readership  had  shrunk  down  to 
1 100,000  readers  total.  Now,  to  show 
I you  how  few  readers  that  is.  Solar 
^Lottery  alone  had  sold  300,000  copies 
j in  1955. 

Many  writers  had  left  the  field. 
We  could  not  make  a living.  I had 
gone  to  work  making  jewelry  with  my 
wife.  I wasn’t  happy.  I didn’t  enjoy 
making  jewelry.  I had  no  talent  what- 
soever. She  had  the  talent.  She  is  still 
a jeweler  and  a very  fine  one,  making 
gorgeous  stuff  which  she  sells  to 
places  like  Neiman-Marcus.  It’s  great 
art.  But  I couldn’t  do  anything  except 
polish  what  she  made. 

I decided  that  I’d  better  tell  her  I 
was  working  on  a book  so  I wouldn’t 
have  to  polish  her  jewelry  all  day  long. 
We  had  a little  cabin,  and  I went  over 
there  with  a sixty-five;-dollar  portable 
typewriter  made  in  Eiong  Kong— the 
“e”  key  was  stuck  on  it.  I started 
with  nothing  but  the  name  “Mister 
Tagomi’’  written  on  a scrap  of  paper. 


no  other  notes.  I had  been  reading  a 
lot  of  Oriental  philosophy,  reading  a 
lot  of  Zen  Buddhism,  reading  the  I 
Ching.  That  was  the  Marin  County 
Zeitgeist  at  that  point,  Zen  Buddhism 
and  the  / Ching.  I just  started  right 
out  and  kept  on  trucking.  It  was 
either  that  or  go  back  to  polishing 
jewelry. 

When  I had  the  manuscript  fin- 
ished, I showed  it  to  her.  She  said, 
“It’s  all  right,  but  you’ll  never  make 
more  than  $750  off  of  it.  I don’t  even 
see  where  it’s  worth  your  while  to 
submit  it  to  your  agent.’’ 

I said,  “What  the  hell!’’  And  The 
Man  in  the  High  Castle  was  bought  by 
Putnam’s  for  $1500,  which  isn’t  a 
great  deal  more  than  she  had  proph- 
esied. It  did  get  tremendous  reviews. 
Part  of  that  was  due  to  the  good  for- 
tune that  it  was  picked  up  by  the 
Science  Fiction  Book  Club.  Had  it  not 
been  picked  up  by  them,  it  would  not 
have  won  the  Hugo  Award,  because 
the  edition  would  have  been  too  small. 

I must  admit  that  I had  thought 
for  years  about  writing  an  alternate- 
world  novel  in  which  the  Axis  won 


World  War  II.  I did  start  without 
written  notes,  but  I had  done  seven 
years  of  research  at  the  closed  stacks 
in  U.C. -Berkeley.  And  I looked  at 
Gestapo  documents,  because  I could 
read  some  German,  marked  “For 
the  eyes  of  the  higher  police  only.” 

I had  to  structure  out  the  deci- 
sions that  the  Nazis  would  have  had  to 
make,  the  changes  in  history  that  ; 
would  have  permitted  them  to  win 
that  war.  It  would  be  a very  long  list 
of  things  that  would  have  had  to  hap- 
pen, and  they’re  not  all  in  Man  in  the 
High  Castle.  Just  for  example,  Spain  : 
would’ve  had  to  grant  them  the  right 
to  go  through,  you  know,  from  France 
to  take  Gibraltar  and  close  off  the 
Mediterranean.  That  war  was  not  real- 
ly as  close  a call  as  we  thought  it  was. 

I mean,  it  is  just  not  that  easy  to 
defeat  Russia— as  certain  people  in  i 
history  have  found  out.  I hope  we’re  j 
not  about  to  find  that  out  ourselves. 
TZ:  Let’s  get  back  to  Blade  Runner. 
What  turned  you  180  degrees  in  your 
attitude  toward  the  production? 

Dick:  You  know,  I was  so  turned  off 
by  Hollywood.  And  they  were  really 
turned  off  by  me.  That  insistence  on  ’ 
my  part  of  bringing  out  the  original  ’ 
novel » and  not  doing  the  noveliza- 
tion— they  were  just  furious.  They 
finally  recognized  that  there  was  a 
legitimate  reason  for  reissuing  the 
novel,  even  though  it  cost  them 
money.  It  was  a victory  not  just  of 
contractual  obligations  but  of  theo- 
retical principles. 

And  although  this  is  spectllation 
on  my  part,  I think  that  one  of  the 
spin-offs  was  that  they  went  back  to 
the  original  novel.  Because  they  knew 
it  would  be  reissued,  you  see.  So  it  is 
possible  that  it  got  M back  into  the 
screenplay  by  a process  of  positive 
feedback.  I was  such  a harsh  critic  of 
Hampton  Fancher’s  original  screen- 
play, and  I was  so  outspoken,  that  the 
studio  knows  that  my  present  attitude 
is  sincere,  that  I’m  not  just  hyping 
them.  Because  I was  really  angry  and 
disgusted. 

There  were  good  things  in  Fan- 
cher’s screenplay.  It’s  like  the  story  of 
the  old  lady  who  takes  a ring  into  a 
r jeweler  to  have  the  stone  reset.  And 
the  jeweler  scrapes  all  of  the  patina  of 
years  and  years  and  shines  it  up,  and 
she  says,  “My  God,  that  was  what  I 
loved  the  ring  for— the  patina!”  Okay, 
they  had  cleaned  my  book  up  of  all  of 
the  subtleties  and  of  the  meaning.  'The 

51 


Philip  K.  Dick 


"I  started  with  nothing  but  the  name 
'Mister  Tagoml'  written  on  a scrap  of 
paper."  Dick’s  Hugo-winning  novel  The 
Man  In  the  High  Castle  Is  set  In  on 
alternative  universe  In  which  the  Axis 
powers  have  won  World  War  II. 

meaning  was  gone.  It  had  become  a 
fight  between  androids  and  a bounty 
hunter. 

I had  this  vision  in  my  mind  then 
that  I would  go  up  there  and  be  in- 
troduced to  Ridley  Scott,  and  be  in- 
troduced to  Harrison  Ford,  who’s  the 
lead  character,  and  I’d  just  be  so 
dazzled  I’d  be  like  Mr.  Toad  seeing  the 
motorcar  for  the  first  time.  My  eyes 
would  be  wide  as  saucers  and  I’d  just 
be  standing  there  completely  mesmer- 
ized. Then  I would  watch  a scene  be- 
ing shot.  And  Harrison  Ford  would 
say,  “Lower  that  blast-pistol  or  you’re 
a dead  android!”  And  I would  just 
leap  across  that  special  effects  set  like 
a veritable  gazelle  and  seize  him  by 
the  throat  and  start  battering  him 
against  the  wall.  They’d  have  to  run  in 
and  throw  a blanket  over  me  and  call 
the  security  guards  to  bring  in  the 
Thorazine.  And  I’d  be  screaming, 
“You’ve  destroyed  my  book!” 

’That  would  be  a little  item  in  the 
newspaper:  “Obscure  Author  Becomes 
Psychotic  on  H’wood  Set;  Minor 
Damage,  Mostly  to  the  Author.” 
They’d  have  to  ship  me  back  to 
i Orange  County  in  a crate  full  of  air 
■ holes.  And  I’d  still  be  screaming. 


I started  drinking  a whole  lot  of 
scotch.  I went  from  a thimbleful  to  a 
jigger  glass  and  finally  to  two  wine 
glasses  of  scotch  every  night.  Last 
Memorial  Day  I staitod  bleeding, 
gastrointestinal  bleeding.  And  it  was 
because  of  drinking  scotch  and  taking  j 
aspirin  constantly  and  worrying  about  I 
this  whole  goddamned  thing.  I said,  | 
“Hollywood  is  gonna  kill  me  by  1 
remote  control!”  j 

One  is  always  haunted  by  the  j 
specter  of  F.  Scott  Fitzgerald,  who  | 
goes  there  and  they  just  grind  him  up,  I 
like  in  a garbage  disposal.  i 

TZ:  All  of  that  changed  when  you  | 
saw  David  W.  Peoples’s  revised  j 
screenplay?  . ; 

Dick:  I saw  a segment  of  Douglas  j 
Trumbull’s  special  effects  for  Blade  i 
Runner  on  the  KNBC-'TV  news.  I i 
recognized  it  immediately.  It  was  my 
own  interior  world.  They  caught  it 
perfectly. 

I wrote  the  station,  and  they  sent 
the  letter  to  the  Ladd  Company.  They 
gave  me  the  updated  screenplay.  I 
read  it  without  knowing  they  had 
brought  somebody  else  in.  I couldn’t 
believe  what  I was  reading!  It  was 
simply  sensational— still  Hampton 


Fancher’s  screenplay,  but  miraculously 
transfigured,  as  it  were.  The  whole 
thing  had  simply  been  rejuvenated  in  a 
very  fundamental  way. 

After  I finished  reading  the 
screenplay,  I got  the  novel  out  and 
looked  through  it.  The  two  reinforce 
each  other,  so  that  someone  who 
started  with  the  novel  would  enjoy  the 
movie  and  someone  who  started  with 
the  movie  would  enjoy  the  novel.  I 
was  amazed  that  Peoples  could  get 
some  of  those  scenes  to  work.  It 
taught  me  things  about  writing  that  I 
didn’t  know. 

The  thing  I had  in  mind  all  of  the 
time,  from  the  beginning  of  it,  was 
The  Man  Who  Fell  to  Earth.  'This  was 
the  paradigm.  That’s  why  I was  so 


disappointed  when  I read  the  first  ! 
Blade  Runner  screenplay,  because  it  i 
was  the  absolute  antithesis  of  what 
was  done  in  TIve  Man  Who  Fell  to 
Earth.  In  other  words,  it  was  a 
destruction  of  the  novel.  But  now,  it’s 
magic  time.  You  read  the  screenplay 
and  then  you  go  to  the  novel,  and  it’s 
like  they’re  two  halves  to  one  meta- 
artwork, one  meta-artifact.  It’s  just 
exciting. 

As  my  agent,  Russell  Galen,  put 
it,  “Whenever  a Hollywood  film  adap- 
tation of  a book  works,  it  is  always  a 
miracle.”  Because  it  just  cannot  really 
happen.  It  did  happen  with  The  Man 
Who  Fell  to  Earth  and  it  has  hap-  ! 
pened  with  Bkuie  Runner,  I’m  sure  j 
now.  j 

TZ:  It’s  great  to  hear  that. 

Dick:  Oh,  yeah.  It’s  been  the  greatest 
thing  for  me.  I was  just  destroyed  at 
one  point  at  the  prospect  of  this  awful 
thing  that  had  happened  to  my  work. 

I wouldn’t  go  up  there,  I wouldn’t  talk 
to  them,  I wouldn’t  meet  Ridley  Scott. 

I was  supposed  to  be  wined  and  dined 
and  ever^hing,  and  I wouldn’t  go,  I 
just  wouldn’t  go.  There  was  bad  blood 
between  us. 

That  David  W.  Peoples  screenplay 


changed  my  attitude.  He  had  been 
working  on  the  third  Star  Wars  film. 
Revenge  of  the  Jedi.  The  Blade  Runner 
people  hired  him  away  temporarily  to 
do  the  script  by  showing  him  my 
novel. 

I’m  now  working  very  closely  with 
the  Ladd  Compa,ny  and.  I’m  on  very 
good  terms  with  them.  In  fact,  that’s 
one  of  the  things;  that’s  worn  me  out. 
I’ve  been  so  anped-up  over  Blade 
Runner  I couldn’t  work  on  The  Owl  in 
Daylight. 

I hear  the  film’s  going  to  have  an 
old-fashioned  gala  premiere.  It  means 
I’ve  got  to  buy— or  rent— a black  tux- 
edo, which  I don’t  look  forward  to. 
That’s  not  my  style.  I’m  happier  in  a 
T-shirt.  IS 


‘‘It  guided  me  for  a while.  It  has 
spoken  to  me  sporadically  since 
I was  in  high  school.  I expect  that 
if  a crisis  arises  it  will  say 
something  again. 


S2 


Photos  © 1962  by  Ladd  Ci 


Blade  Runner 


HARRISON  FORD  CONFRONTS  A WORLD  OF  RENEGADE  ANDROIDS 
IN  RIDLEY  SCOTT'S  FILM  OF  THE  PHILIP  K.  DICK  NOVEL 
TZ'S  JAMES  VERNIERE  REPORTS. 


If  alienation  is  the  modem  condition,  then  Philip  K. 
Dick  was  its  prophet.  In  his  novels,  which  include  VALIS, 
Ubik,  Through  a Scanner  Darkly,  Do  Androids  Dream  of 
Electric  Sheep?,  and  the  classic  Man  in  the  High  Tower, 
Dick  created  universes  that  are  literally  falling  apart, 
where  Americans  are  a powerless,  colonized  people, 
where  radioactivity  contaminates  everything,  where  the 
fabric  of  space  and  time  is  rent,  where  a universal  cancer 
infects  all  and  reduces  all  to  “kipple,”  and  where  humans 
cannot  be  distinguished  from  androids. 

In  keeping  with  the  entropy  motif  of  Dick’s  work. 
Do  Androids  Dream  of  Electric  Sheep?  is  a portrait  of 
the  slow  death  of  the  planet.  It  is,  like  the  novels  of 
British  “new  wave”  writers  Brian  Aldiss  and  J.G. 

Ballard,  a paranoid  vision  of  the  future.  In  Dick’s  case  it 
is  a future  where,  if  paranoia  and  schizophrenia  don’t  get 
you,  the  androids  will. 

To  anyone  familiar  with  Dick’s  work,  the 
adaptability  of  Do  Androids  Dream  of  Electric  Sheep?  to 
the  screen  is  obvious:  It  is  on  one  level  an  action-packed 


detective  thriller,  in  which  the  protagonist  is  a bounty 
hunter  named  Rick  Deckard  who  tracks  down  and  kills 
androids  who  have  infiltrated  human  society.  On  another 
level,  it  is  a love  story  set  against  the  backdrop  of  a 
grimly  realistic  future  world. 

Evidently  screenwriter  Hampton  Fancher 
recognized  the  novel’s  potential  as  a feature  film  and 
arranged  to  do  the  first  draft  of  a script.  The  result 
came  to  the  attention  of  director  Ridley  Scott  {The 
Duellists,  Alien)  and  producer  Michael  Deeley  {The  Deer 
Hunter),  and  the  twenty-million-dollar  Blade  Runner  (the 
title  actually  comes  from  an  sf  novel  by  Alan  E.  Nourse) 
was  on  its  way  to  the  screen.  The  finaJ  product  is  slated 
to  be  released  this.  May  by  the  Ladd  Company. 

Like  Dick’s  dystopian  novel,  Blade  Runner  is  a 
hybrid,  a product  of  the  cross-fertilization  of  genres.  It  is 
at  once  a stunningly  bleak  vision  of  the  near  future  set 
in  the  year  2020  and  a hard-boiled  detective  thriller.  In 
the  opening  of  Scott’s  film,  Rick  Deckard,  played  by 
Harrison  Ford  of  Star  Wars  and  Raiders  of  the  Lost 


f 


53 


Blade  Runner 


In  a downtown  noodle  bar,  tormor  "blado  runner"  Rick 
Deckard  (Harrison  Ford)  Is  dratted  out  of  retirement  by 
(Edward  Jarrres  Olmos)  aixt  his  old  police  unit. 


Ark,  is  summoned  from  an  early  retirement  by  his  old 
police  unit,  Rep-Detect  (for  “replicant  detection”)  to  hunt 
and  kill  five  renegade  replicants  — the  term  “android”  is 
not  used  in  the  film— who  have  escaped  from  their  off- 
world  colony.  The  cynical  Deckard  is  solicited  because  he 
is  the  best  “blade  runner”  (i.e.,  replicant  exterminator)  in 
the  business.  Deckard,  who  travels  in  a flying  police  car 
called  a spinner,  can  expose  someone  as  a replicant  by 
testing  him  with  a device  called  a Voight-Kampf  machine, 
a futuristic  polygraph  that  measures  empathic  levels. 
(Replicants,  who  are  naturally  solipsistic,  must  feign 
empathy.) 

“Our  main  character,”  says  director  Ridley  Scott, 

“is  a detective  like  Sam  Spade  or  Philip  Marlowe,  a man 
who  follows  a hunch  to  the  end.  He  gets  in  trouble  when 
he  begins  to  identify  with  his  quarry,  the  replicants.  He 
possesses  some  of  ^e  doumess  of  Bogey,  but  he’s  more 
ambivalent,  more  human,  almost  an  antihero.” 

Deckard’s  nemesis  is  a cunning  and  dangerous 
replicant  named  Roy  Batty,  played  by  Dutch  actor 
Rutger  Hauer,  who.  scored  in  the  U.S.  as  the  heroic 
protagonist  of  Soldier  of  Orange  and  the  bloodthirsty 
terrorist  in  Nighthawks.  The  replicants  in  Blade  Runner 
are  genetically  engineered  beings  grown  from  human 
tissue  cultures,  and  they  are  virtually  indistinguishable 
from  human  beings.  They  are,  however,  much  stronger 
and  faster,  and  they  come  in  combat  models. 

The  most  obvious  digression  from  Dick’s  novel  in 
the  film  is  the  filmmakers’  decision  to  jettison  the  term 
“android”  in  favor  of  the  tonier  neologism  “replicant.” 

“When  we  set  out  to  do  this  film,”  says  Scott,  “we 
decided  to  make  ‘android’  a taboo  word.  I said,  ‘Anybody 
who  uses  the  word  “android”  gets  his  head  broken  with  a 
baseball  bat,  okay?’  Because  it  sets  up  all  sorts  of 
preconceptions  of  the  kind  of  film  this  could  be.” 

Co-scenarist  David  W.  Peoples  actually  came  up 
with  the  term.  “I  called  up  my  oldest  daughter,  who 
majors  in  biochemisty,”  said  Peoples.  “We  talked  about 
androids,  and  she  gave  me  some  jargon  which  included 
the  term  ‘replicate.’  I wasn’t  really  looking  to  replace  the 
term  ‘android,’  but  it  has  been  us^  an  awful  lot.” 

The  setting  of  the  story,  too,  has  been  altered. 
Dick’s  novel  is  set  in  a post-“World  War  Terminus”  San 


Deckard's  adversary  1$  Roy  Batty  (Rutger  Hauer),  leader  of 
geneticalty  engineered  beings  Imown  as  replicants. 


Bock  In  action,  Deckard  mans  a Voight-Kampf  machine,  a 
futuristic  polygraph  which  exposes  replicants  masquerading 
as  humans. 


Several  renegade  replicants  pay  a clarxjestine  visit  to  Chew 
(James  Hong)  In  his  sub-zero  lab,  site  of  mlcrosurgical 
genetic  deskjn  work. 


M 


Tyrell  (Joe  Turkel),  head  of  a corpofotkjn  that  manufactures 
replicants,  maintains  a penthouse  office  atop  a 7(X)-story 
pyramid  with  his  mysterious  assistant  Rachael  (Sean  Young). 


Through  the  teeming  streets,  Deckard  (page  51)  pursues 
Zhora  (Joanna  Cossldy-above).  an  exotic  entertainer  and 
suspected  replicant. 

Francisco.  In  contrast  to  the  film,  the  novel  depicts  a 
dwindling  population.  The  surrounding  area  is  a sterile 
wasteland  of  radioactive  debris,  and  many  of  the 
survivors  of  the  war  have  emigrated  to  off-world 
colonies.  Almost  all  plant  and  animal  life  has  been 
eradicated,  and  those  who  remain  on  Earth  are 
continuously  bathed  in  residual  radioactivity.  As  a result, 
many  are  genetically  damaged  mutants  derisively  referr^ 
to  as  “chicken-heads.”  An  idea  that  has  been  retained  by 
the  filmmakers  is  that  most  people  are  unhappy  because 
life  on  Earth  is  for  losers  who  can’t  afford  ^e  luxury  of 
an  off-world  colony.  « 

In  the  film,  the  setting  is  an  unnamed  future 
metropolis  reminiscent  of  New  York  or  Chicago.  The 
switch  was  as  much  the  daughter  of  necessity  as  it  was 
a product  of  invention,  since  the  filmmakers  wanted  to 
build  their  future  city  on  top  of  an  existing  one,  and 
such  a set  existed  at  Burbank  Studios,  where  a complex 
known  as  “New  York  Street”  was  built  years  ago.  (In 
fact,  Humphrey  Bogart  worked  on  this  set  for  Warner 
Brothers.) 

As  designed  by  Lawrence  G.  Pauli,  Blade  Runner 
is  a vision  of  the  future  as  an  urban  nightmare.  In  the 
film,  old-fashioned  buildings  have  been  “retro-fitted”— 
adapted  for  future  use  by  adding  new  technology  to 
existing  structures.  They  form  the  foundation  for  a 
multilevel  megastructure  consisting  of  hundreds  of  floors 
of  futuristic  structures  inlaid  above  ground  level.  The  city 
in  Blade  Runner  is  a dense  tangle  of  Byzantine  canyons 
full  of  multilingual  neon  signs,  milling  crowds  of 
predominantly  Asian  citizens,  and  crawling  ground  traffic. 
“Our  concept,”  says  Pauli,  “is  that  cities  will  start  to 
deteriorate  and  the  electrical,  mechanical,  and  ventilating 
systems  will  break  down.  Rather  than  rebuild  from 
scratch,  we  have  decided  to  ‘retro-fit.’” 

Pauli’s  crews  not  only  “retro-fitted”  the  existing 
street  set.  They  also,  added  about  three  stories  of 
futuristic  structures  on  top  of  it.  “I’d  call  it  a production 
designer’s  dream  and  nightmare  all  at  once,”  says  Pauli. 
The  hundreds  of  levels  ix)ve  the  third  story  were  matted 
in  by  the  Entertainment  Effects  Group,  a facility  formed 
by  Douglas  Trumbell  {2001,  Star  Trek,  Close  Encounters), 
who  supervised  the  film’s  special  effects.  Its  final  look 

I 


Deckard  follows  a lead  down  Animold  Row,  where  replicant 
animals  are  sold.  Most  real  species  are  by  now  almost 
extinct. 


ss 


Danger  lurks  ovortiead  os  well  as  In  the  streets.  In  a cNmoctlc  confrontation,  Deckard  chases  Roy  Batty  arrrong  the  ledges, 
eaves,  and  rooftops  of  Ridley  Scott's  Infernal  future  city,  where  the  height  of  one's  apartment  reflects  one's  social  status. 


has  been  playfully  dubbed  “retro  deco”  and  “trash  chic” 
by  the  filmakers. 

Blade  Runner  has  silready  been  described  by  some 
as  a live-action  Heavy  Metal  magazine,  prompting  a few 
to  wonder  if  Ridley  Scott  might  have  been  inspired  by 
the  future  cities  depicted  by  graphic  illustrator  Moebius, 
who  designed  the  Samurai  spacesuits  for  Scott’s  Alien. 
“Yes,  there’s  a lot  of  Heavy  Metal  influence  in  the  show,” 
Pauli  admits.  “As  soon  as  I got  involved  in  the  project, 
Ridley  laid  out  around  fifteen  Heavy  Metal  issues,  and  we 
took  certain  elements  of  scale  and  density  from  some  of 
the  cities  in  the  magazine.” 

In  fact,  in  1977,  Moebius  and  Alien  scenarist  Dan 
O’Bannon  did  a futuristic,  Raymond  Chandler-inspired 
detective  story  for  Heavy  Metal  entitled  “The  Long 
Tomorrow,”  which  featured  a tough  detective  with  a 
shaved  head  beset  by  shape-shifting  aliens.  “We  went 
through  that  one  extensively,”  says  Pauli.  “There  was  a 
drawing  of  the  city  in  that  story  that  had  a texture  we 
liked.”  Coincident^y,  in  the  early  stages  of  Blade 
Runner  there  were  rumors  that  Harrison  Ford  had 
shaved  his  head  to  play  Deckard. 

Like  Alien,  Raiders  of  the  Lost  Ark,  Escape  from 
New  York  and  Cannenry  Row,  Blade  Runner  is  an  art- 
directed  film,  meticulously  designed  to  reflect  a particular 
look.  In  the  case  of  Blade  Runner,  the  costumes,  for 
example,  designed  by  Charles  Knode  and  Michael  Kaplan, 
are  both  realistically  futuristic  yet  reminiscent  of  the 
1940s,  which  is  in  keeping  with  the  film  noir  look  that 
Scott  and  his  colleagues  have  tried  to  create. 

If  Swiss  artist  H.  R.  Giger  is  the  spiritual  father  of 


Alien’s  bioengineered  hell,  then  the  infernal  city  in  Blade 
Runner  is  the  soul  child  of  artist-engineer  Syd  Mead, 
whose  science  fiction  paintings  can  be  seen  in  the  1980 
art  book  Sentinel.  Mead,  who  helped  create  the  “V-ger” 
entity  in  the  Star  Trek  movie,  is  a futurist  designer  who 
has  worked  for  Chrysler,  U.S.  Steel,  NASA,  and  Ford. 
He  was  initially  hir^  to  create  vehicles  for  Blade 
Runner,  but  his  role  was  expanded. 

“I  started  by  designing  something  we  called  ‘the 
peoples’  car,’  as  well  as  the  taxis,  the  trucks,  Deckard’s 
sedan,  and  the  spinners.  But  I soon  started  putting  in 
background  details  that  reflected  the  look  of  the  setting,” 
says  Mead,  who  created  the  “retro-fit”  look  for  the  film 
and  came  up  with  windows  that  are  actually  video 
screens  through  which  a viewer  may  gaze  at  whatever 
scene  he  likes  without  revealing  the  real  urban  blight 
outside.  “It’s  like  a cable  tv  service  clamped  on  your 
window.  It  gives  the  buildings  a strange,  warehouse 
look.” 

Mead  also  conceived  of  layering  new  buildings  on 
top  of  old.  “Once  you  get  past  one  hundred  floors,”  he 
explains,  “you  need  a whole  new  highway  system.  That’s 
why  the  street  scenes  are  so  impacted— because  the 
streets  are  practically  underground,  which  accentuates 
the  brutality.” 

What  the  makers  of  Blade  Runner  have  attempted 
to  create  is  a kind  of  archaeology  of  the  future,  in  aJl  of 
its  vast  multiplicity  and  wealth  of  detail,  within  the 
confines  of  an  action-packed  detective  plot.  If  they 
succeed,  serious  students  of  science  fiction  will  have 
reason  to  rejoice  in  the  spring  of  ’82.  iS 


56 


9 


by  Steve  Rasnic  Tern 


SHE  WAS  WISE  IN  THE  WAYS  OF  MAGIC,  BUT  SHE  HAD 
SOMETHING  MORE  IMPORTANT  TO  TEACH:  A LESSON  IN  REALITY. 


turned  ten  before  the  summer 
i—/  began  that  year,  and  for  the  fourth  summer 
in  a row  he  had  left  his  father’s  home  in  the 
city  to  stay  with  his  mother  in  a cottage  by  the  dark 
green  pond. 

Years  later  he  would  doubt  his  memories  of 
' that  time,  and  would  wonder,  after  all,  what  had 
really  occurred.  This  was  the  last  summer  Alan 
would  believe  his  mother  to  be  magical. 

He  did  not  understand  his  parents’  divorce; 
when  he  was  six  his  mother  had  come  to  him  one 
day  and  explained  it  all,  but  he  hadn’t  really 
understood  what  she  was  saying.  He  did  remember 
that  she  had  said  his  father  did  not  like  the  things 
she  wanted  to  do,  and  that  this  made  her  very 
unhappy.  She  said  people  owed  it  to  themselves  to  do 
the  things  that  made  them  happiest.  That  had  made 
a lot  of  sense  to  him  at  the  time,  and  when  his  father 
or  others  had  criticized  his  mother  for  it,  he  had  ob- 
jected strongly.  But  then  he  couldn’t  understand  why 
she  didn’t  take  him  along  with  her,  and  he  was 
always  a little  angry  with  her  for  that. 

His  mother’s  cottage  was  a beautiful  place, 
with  many  flowers  and  animals  and,  of  course,  the 
dark  green  pond,  which  always  seemed  to  hold  your 
reflection  a moment— an  image  clearer  than  any  mir- 
ror’s—before  drawing  it  into  the  deep  dark  green  of 
itself.  As  he  stared  into  the  water,  Alan  always  felt 
that  he  was  drowning,  but  for  some  reason  it  was 
a nice  feeling,  as  if  the  pond  were  delivering  him 
to  some  other,  more  beautiful  world  beneath  the 
surface. 

Sometimes  the  image  of  himself  seemed  older 
than  he  was  by  a week,  by  a year,  by  decades.  The 
clothes  would  be  different,  or  the  willow  tree  hang- 
ing over  him  in  the  reflection  would  be  showing 
signs  of  a different  season  from  the  one  on  his  side 
of  the  reflecting  surface.  And  one  time  the  willow 
tree  wasn’t  there  at  all,  and  the  image  in  the  water 
was  that  of  an  old,  old  man. 

It  had  seemed,  then,  without  a doubt,  that 
his  mother  was  magical.  Each  summer  when  she 
greeted  him  at  the  crossroads  beyond  her  cottage. 


she  had  presented  him  with  a gift,  and  it  was  always 
the  .gift  he  had  secretly  wished  for:  a teddy  bear,  or 
a spin  top,  or  the  comic  book  he’d  begged  his  father 
to  buy  him  the  previous  week,  only  to  see  the  last 
copy  sold  when  he  ran  to  the  drugstore  out  of 
breath,  the  dime  clutched  in  his  anxious  fist. 

When  he  asked  his  mother  how  she  knew, 
she  always  replied  the  same:  “Mothers  know 
everything.’’  She’d  laugh  and  he’d  laugh  too,  but 
always  a little  more  puzzled  than  before. 

Another  time  she  showed  her  magical  powers 
was  when  he  was  sick  or  injured.  There  seemed  to 
be  nothing  she  couldn’t  cure.  Her  neighbors  in  this 
part  of  the  country  seemed  to  think  this,  too,  and 
were  always  bringing  rashes  and  bellyaches  and 
broken  bones  for  her  to  mend.  She’d  send  them 
away  with  mixtures  of  herbs,  homemade  ointments, 
or  sometimes  even  water  from  the  dark  green  pond. 
And  he  never  heard  any  of  th(!m  say  she  hadn’t 
cured  them;  all  praised  her  abilities. 

He  remembered  the  day  he  had  cut  his  hand 
badly  on  a piece  of  broken  glass  out  by  the 
crossroads.  He  knew  he  wasn’t  supposed  to  be  play- 
ing out  there— she’d  always  warned  him  against  it— 
so  he  didn’t  want  to  come  to  her  £it  first,  afraid  she’d 
punish  him.  Or  perhaps  she  wouldn’t  cure  it  at  all 
because  he’d  disobeyed  her.  Perhaps  she’d  even 
make  it  hurt  worse.  But  it  bled  a great  deal,  all  over 
his  new  blue  shirt,  and  he  was  afraid  he  would  die  if 
he  did  not  go  to  his  mother. 

He’d  raced  into  the  cottage  crying  hysterically, 
bare-chested,  his  bleeding  hand  vn-apped  in  his  new 
shirt.  His  mother  had  cried  out  in  alarm  and  em- 
braced him,  stroked  him,  cooed  to  him— all  this,  even 
though  he  was  bleeding  over  her.  Her  reaction 
pleased  him  and  made  him  uneasy  at  the  same  time; 
she’d  always  seemed  so  calm  arid  controlled  about 
everything  else. 

After  she  had  comforted  him  she’d  taken  him 
into  her  sitting  room,  and  showed  him  a small,  shiny 
wood  table  covered  with  a piece  of  red  velvet.  He 
was  to  lay  the  back  of  his  hand  on  the  velvet. 

She  took  a jar  of  ground  herbs  off  orte  of  her 


Etch'lng  by  Harry  Pincus 


shelves  and  sprinkled  the  powder  over  his  hand,  those  other  kids  again.  But  they  had  been  especially 
Then  she  added  a f(3w  drops  of  a blue  liquid.  Then  nice  to  him. 

she  wrapped  the  velvet  up  around  his  hand  and  led  And  then  his  eleventh  summer  came,  and 

him  out  by  the  pond,  where  she  dipped  his  hand  for  everything  was  different  after  that, 
several  minutes.  The  first  thing  he  noticed  was  in  the  taxi  on 

Later  he  would  try  to  understand  exactly  what  the  way  to  the  crossroads.  He  suddenly  realized  he 
had  happened  next.  He  remembered  her  taking  the  wasn’t  all  that  excited  about  seeing  his  mother  that 
velvet  and  his  bloodied  bandage  off  immediately  year.  It  was  his  first  year  of  eligibility  for  the  base- 
after  pulling  it  out  cf  the  water.  But  it  had  to  have  ball  league  at  the  city  park,  and  he  had  to  admit  he’d 
been  a period  of  weeks,  he  was  sure,  for  the  skin  really  rather  be  playing  baseball  that  summer.  All 
was  completely  heakid.  'There  wasn’t  even  a scab.  the  other  boys  had  even  made  fun  of  him  when  he’d 

His  mother  always  seemed  to  know  what  he  told  them  how  he  was  spending  the  summer, 
had  been  thinking  back  then.  Later  he  would  wonder  “Well,  I don’t  really  want  to  go.  But  my  dad 

if  perhaps  all  littkj  boys  thought  that  of  their  says  I have  to  . . . ’’  he’d  told  them,  and  his  face  had 
mothers.  He  would  always  remember  the  day  he  had  suddenly  gone  hot  with  shame.  What  if  his  mother 
been  so  disappointed  that  he  wouldn’t  be  in  the  city  knew  then,  what  he  had  been  thinking  and  saying?  A 
for  a friend’s  party,  and  how  his  mother  had  sur-  chUl  played  with  his  fingers,  and  he  imagined  her  in- 
prised  him  with  a big  party  in  her  cottage,  with  all  visible  form  standing  beside  him,  looking  sadly  down 
the  neighboring  kids  and  some  kids  he  couldn’t  at  him  as  a cold  wind  lifted  her  hair, 
recognize.  It  was  funny,  because  he  had  thought  he  There  was  a lot  to  do  in  the  city  that  summer, 

knew  all  the  kids  aimund  there,  and  he  never  saw  he  had  suddenly  realized,  and  for  the  life  of  him  he 

59 


Plan  's  ^Mother 


couldn’t  remember  doing  anything  those  summers  at 
his  mother’s  that  had  been  fun  at  all. 

But  he  was  proud  of  his  new  jeans,  his  baseball 
cap,  the  tennis  shoes  the  big  boys  wore.  He  wasn’t  a 
little  kid  anymore;  he  wanted  his  mother  to  see  that. 

His  mother  was  there  at  the  crossroads  to 
greet  him,  her  tall  dark  gray  form  standing  by  the 
high  embankment  covered  with  dead  weeds.  He  was 
almost  startled  to  see  her;  she  looked  old,  and  he 
could  not  remember  her  looking  old  before.  Her  hair 
was  gray,  her  face  starkly  shadowed,  and  as  the  cab 
pulled  up  beside  her  he  could  see  lines  in  the 
shadows.  Her  once-smooth  face  was  lined.  And  her 
characteristically  stoic  expression  seemed  one  of 
sadness  this  time,  as  if  a thin  line  of  mood  had  been 
crossed  in  her  advancing  age. 

He  got  out  of  the  cab,  and  it  sped  off.  He 
watched  it  leave,  purposefully  delaying  the  moment 
he  must  look  her  in  the  face.  When  he  did  turn  and 
look  up  at  his  mother,  she  was  holding  something 
out  to  him.  He  had  almost 'forgotten.  It  was  his 
yearly  gift. 

“A  slingshot?”  he  asked  in  surprise.  She  did 
not  answer  him,  just  slipped  it  into  his  hands.  He 
stroked  the  hardwood  handle.  “How  did  you—”  But 
something  about  her  expression  stopped  his  question. 

It  wasn’t  a toy,  nothing  like  the  ones  he’d  had 
before.  He’d  seen  one  just  like  it  in  one  of  his 
father’s  sporting  goods  catalogs.  He’d  wanted  it 
badly  ever  since  then:  something  he  could  show  the 
other  kids  down  at  the  park. 

But  his  father  had  said  it  wasn’t  a toy;  it  was  a 
hunting  weapon.  It  wasn’t  for  him.  How  did  she 
know  that  was  what  he  wanted?  And  moreover,  why 
was  she  giving  him  this?  He  would  have  expected  her 
not  to  approve. 

His  mother  was  looking  at  him  sadly.  And 
unlike  any  summer  before,  she  did  not  take  his  hand 
when  they  left  the  crossroads  for  her  cottage.  But  he 
was  a big  boy  now;  she  must  have  seen  that. 

The  cottage  seemed  much  as  he  had  remem- 
bered it:  the  lace  tablecloth  on  the  small  table  in  her 
alcove  she  used  for  dining,  the  kitchen  with  its 
natural  woods  and  cast  iron,  the  fireplace  of  gray 
stone.  But  it  was  all  smaller  and  older  than  it  had 
been  before,  and  there  seemed  nothing  there  that 
might  interest  him. 

For  the  first  time  she  fixed  a dinner  he  did  not 
enjoy.  Why  didn’t  she  know  he  didn’t  like  fish 
anymore? 

And  the  story  she  read  him  that  evening  was 
one  he’d  become  bored  with  a long  time  ago. 

He  could  tell  she  was  feeling  the  difference, 
too.  All  her  smiles  were  sad  ones  this  summer. 

All  summer  he  waited  for  his  mother  to  do 
something  special,  magical.  Neighbors  still  came  to 
her  for  aid,  and  she  gave  them  herbs  and  ointments 


as  before,  but  never  did  he  see  the  miracles  he 
remembered.  How  could  he  know'  if  the  people  had 
been  cimed?  They  seemed  satisfied  with  her  help; 
people  came  back  to  her  and  no  one  ever  appeared 
to  complain.  But  he  was  losing  co]ifidence  in  her  this 
year.  Alan  wanted  proof. 

Then  one  cool  summer’s  morning  Alan  re- 
ceived his  opportunity.  He  had  been  sitting  down  by 
the  pond,  picking  up  small  pebbles  and  seeing  how 
far  he  could  shoot  them.  After  weeks  of  practice  he 
had  gotten  good  enough  to  get  them  across  the 
pond,  where  they  landed  on  a large  moss-covered 
rock  with  a satisfying  thump.  Wlien  that  no  longer 
was  a challenge,  he  started  aiming  at  the  large  and 
small  trees  which  bordered  the  other  side  of  the 
pond. 

Suddenly  he  stopped;  he  thought  he’d  seen 
something  in  the  weeds  covering  one  small  section  of 
the  far  bank. 

There  it  was  again!  Alan  sat  up  on  his  heels. 
By  squinting  carefully  he  was  able  to  focus  in  on  one 
particular  spot.  It  was  a rabbit,  brown  with  patches 
of  gray. 

Alan  held  his  breath.  He  could  not  remember 
ever  having  seen  a creature  so  beautiful.  It  was  just 
like  the  rabbits  in  stores.  In  fact,  he  had  a stuffed 
toy  at  home  that  looked  much  like  it— though  he 
didn’t  play  with  it  very  much  anymore,  because  he 
was  a big  boy  now,  too  big  for  that  kind  of  toy. 

He  wanted  it  to  come  to  him.  He  wanted  it 
very  badly. 

The  next  thing  he  would  remember  was  run- 
ning around  the  edge  of  the  pond,  staring  straight 
ahead  at  the  clump  of  weeds  where  the  rabbit  had 
been.  Then  staring  down  at  the  still  form,  the  mouth 
open  over  the  teeth,  the  eyes  glassy. 

He’d  scooped  it  up  even  though  it  smelled,  and 
had  raced  all  the  way  to  his  mother’s  cottage. 

But  she’d  only  looked  at  him  in  sadness,  and  at 
his  precious  slingshot  he’d  not  forgotten  even  in  his 
haste,  stuffed  into  his  front  poclcet.  She  shook  her 
head  slowly.  “I  cannot,”  she’d  said.  “I’m  sorry, 
Alan.” 

“But  you  have  to,  you  have  to!”  he’d  cried,  his 
face  wet  with  tears.  He  wanted  to  stop  his  crying; 
how  could  he  be  a big  boy  and  cry?  But  he  couldn’t 
stop.  “You’ve  always  been  able  to  fix  things. 
Always.” 

“Do  you  still  believe  in  my  magic,  Alan?  Do 
you  still  believe  those  things?” 

Dumbly  he  stared  at  her.  And  finally  shook  his 
head.  “No  ...” 

Alan  never  paid  attention  to  the  people  visiting 
his  mother  for  cures  after  that.  Sometimes  when  a 
storekeeper  in  the  nearby  town  would  say,  “Oh, 
you’re  the  conjure  woman’s  boy,”  he’d  merely  laugh, 
wondering  how  those  grown-ups  could  be  so  gullible. 


60 


Illustration  by  Peter  de  Seve 


IT  WAS  A REAL  ROCKY  HORROR  SHOW- 
DIRECTED  BY  HIS  OWN  MOTHERI 


/really  dug  being  a Zombie,  they’re  a group  that’s 
going  places,  they’ve  got  a bad  sound.  I dug  the 
chicks  too,  the  Zombies  were  getting  it  on  with 
the  chicks.  It  was  bad. 

Ma  was  so  hyper  about  my  amplifiers;  the  only 
kind  of  music  she  liked  was  quiet.  I tried  to  be  cool 
with  her,  after  all,  she  is  my  mother,  but  we’re  not 
tuned  in  to  the  same  scene.  I ask  you,  how  could  she 
expect  me  to  keep  up  my  chops,  when  she  wouldn’t 
even  let  me  turn  up  the  amps?  The  old  biddy  got  a 
headache  every  time  I took  out  my  axe. 

She’d  been  a bitch  about  everything,  she  never 
smoked  or  drank  anything  stronger  than  tea;  I 
watched  her  go  completely  bonkers  over  finding  a 
little  shit  in  my  room.  One  time  it  was  only  a few 
seeds. 

The  last  time  she  found  my  little  stash  of 
grass,  coke  and  a couple  of  Ludes,  she  tried  to  call 
the  law.  I took  the  phone  away  from  her  and  ripped 


it  out  of  the  wall.  She  was  screaming  so  much  I had 
to  smack  her  a couple  of  times  to  get  her  to  shut  up. 
I could  see  there  was  no  point  in  hanging  around 
and  trying  to  explain  her  freakout  to  the  neighbors, 
so  I got  my  gear  together  and  split. 

I hung  out  with  a guy  in  my  group,  the  Zom- 
bies, and  we  were  staying  loaded  and  playing  until 
his  old  lady  split  and  he  forgot  to  pay  the  electric 
bill.  When  I plugged  in  and  couldn’t  get  any  amps,  I 
decided  to  cut  out. 

It  was  close  to  my  birthday,  so  I decided  to 
butter  the  old  bag  up.  If  I couldn’t  move  back  in 
right  away,  I might  be  able  to  get  some  bread  out  of 
her  to  keep  me  g(?ing  till  the  next  gig,  which  didn’t 
start  for  another  two  weeks.  I.  could  use  some  bucks. 
If  I mention  it  in  time,  I might  keep  her  from  get- 
ting me  a sweater  or  cologne  or  some  other  mother- 
type  garbage. 

I dialed  the  number,  the  phone  rang  a couple 


lombies 


% 


of  times,  and  then  this  deep-voiced  old  geezer 
answered. 

“Hello,  is  Mrs.  Jackson  there?”  I said,  wonder- 
ing who  this  was. 

“No,  she’s  not  in  at  the  moment,  may  I take  a 
message?” 

“Yeah  man,  tell  her  Sonny  called  and  I’ll  call 
her  back.”  I couldn’t  think  of  anything  else  I wanted 
to  say  to  this  voice.  I wanted  to  ask  who  he  was  but 
probably  I should  let  her  answer  that  question. 

Then  I thought  of  something  that  made  me 
laugh,  maybe  she  got  a live-in  boyfriend  when  her 
Sonny  split.  That  was  too  far  out.  First  of  all,  who 
would  want  her  aging  carcass,  and  also  she  knew 
that  I wouldn’t  dig  it. 

I went  on  to  the  rehearsal  for  the  new  gig. 
We’ve  got  a good  group,  they’re  really  bad.  Our 
whole  trip  is  occult  and  weird,  some  mean  music.  The 
Blue  Zombies  are  bad,  really  bad,  and  the  chicks 
dig  us.  Man,  all  the  Zombies  have  no  trouble  getting 
chicks.  * 

We  worked  on  the  lights  and  the  fluorescent 
makeup  until  it  was  ready.  We  put  our  speakers  on 
all  four  sides  and  turned  up  the  amps.  We’ve  got  a 
wild  sound.  Danny,  our  lead  guitar,  writes  most  of 
what  we  do.  We’re  getting  a name  around  town. 
We’ve  even  been  talking  with  some  record  company 
about  a deal  but  it  sounds  too  good,  I hate  to  talk 
about  it. 

We  wear  these  long  black  jackets  and  makeup, 
it  looks  weird;  something  between  KISS  and  The 
Grateful  Dead.  We’re  into  our  own  scene,  though  a 
lot  of  our  stuff  might  be  considered  punk.  We  dig 
violence.  I personally  love  it  when  it’s  bad  and  things 
start  to  happen.  Making  blood  flow  always  made  me 
feel  great.  I really  dug  being  a Zombie. 

By  the  end  of  the  rehearsal  I’m  itching  to  call 
Ma  back,  I don’t  dig  sleeping  in  my  car  with  my  axe 
and  my  clothes.  I see  this  chick  that’s  been  hanging 
around  a lot  eyeing  me,  so  I lay  it  on  her.  I need  a 
place  to  crash  for  a couple  of  days  and  she  looks  like 
she’s  gonna  go  for  it. 

She  says,  “Sure,  you  can  hang  out  at  my  pad. 
I just  want  you  to  know  that  I’m  into  leather.” 

That’s  cool  with  me.  Hey,  I don’t  put  down 
anyone  else’s  scene,  man.  It  turns  out  she  likes  a lit- 
tle light  strapping,  and  I dig  giving  strokes.  I’m  just 
not  into  receiving. 

For  a couple  of  days  everything  is  cool.  I’m 
even  tripping  on  it.  When  I remember,  I try  to  call 
home  at  different  hours  of  the  day  and  night  but  I 
can’t  seem  to  connect  with  Ma.  Either  the  guy 
answers  or  nobody  does. 

Finally,  on  the  third  day  Bitsy,  that’s  the 
chick’s  name  that  I’ve  been  staying  with,  Bitsy  tells 
me  her  old  lady  is  coming  back.  Well,  that  scene’s 
too  kinky  even  for  me,  so  I say  later,  and  split. 

62 


...  OS  if  you  can  just 
push  your  own  son, 
your  own  flesh  and  blood, 
out  Just  like  that. 

She  owes  me,  I haven’t 
had  it  easy,  hell. 

I'm  only  twenty-seven. 


Now  then.  I’m  back  on  the  street.  Actually, 
I’ve  got  a little  bread  but  I’ve  been  thinking  of  in- 
vesting in  a lid.  I’d  hate  to  have  to  spend  the  little 
money  I’ve  got  on  a pad.  Besides,  if  I have  to  rent 
something  it  would  be  a dump  and  I like  to  live  bet- 
ter, at  least  close  to  the  beach. 

So,  I try  calling  her  again,  boy  was  I glad  to 
hear  her  voice. 

“Hey  Mom,  it’s  Sonny,  your  bad  little  kid. 
Where  have  you  been?” 

“Did  you  want  something.  Sonny?”  Cold  man, 
just  like  that,  really  cold. 

“Hey  Ma,  I just  want  to  know  how  are  you, 
and  how’s  everything,  you  know.” 

“Well,  I’m  fine.  I’m  very  busy,  but  I’m  glad 
you  called,  I wanted  to  tell  you  tliat  I’ve  rented  your 
room.  Sonny.” 

“Hey  lady,  that  wasn’t  nice.  That  must  be  the 
old  coot  I talked  to  on  the  phone.  I’ll  come  over  and 
give  him  notice  to  vacate.  I need  a place  to  stay,  Ma. 
I’m  on  the  street,  sleeping  in  my  car.” 

“No,  son,  sorry,  but  I’ve  definitely  decided  not 
to  live  with  you  anymore.  You’ll  just  have  to  make 
other  arrangements.  I have  to  go  now,  I have 
something  on  the  stove.  Bye,  dejir.” 

he  phone  was  dead  in  my  hand.  Boy,  she  was 
getting  crazy  in  her  old  age,  as  if  you  can 
just  push  your  own  son,  your  own  flesh  and 
blood  out,  just  like  that.  She  owes  me,  I haven’t  had 
it  easy,  hell.  I’m  only  twenty-seven.  Well,  it’s  not  go- 
ing to  be  just  like  that.  I’m  going  over  there  and  get 
this  settled.  First  I’ll  get  rid  of  tliat  creep  that’s  liv- 
ing there.  I’ll  kick  ass  if  I have  to.  Then  I’ll  handle 
her. 

She’ll  do  things  my  way  if  I can  talk  to  her  in 
person.  How  would  she  like  me  to  cut  my  wrists  all 
over  her  carpet?  Maybe  I’ll  cut  hers.  My  mind  is 
working  clickety-clack,  clickety-clack.  I can  hardly 
wait  to  face  these  two.  She  sounded  so  brave  on  the 
phone.  I’m  betting  she’ll  be  a pushover  in  the  flesh. 

All  the  way  over  in  the  car  I’m  thinking  about 
the  nerve  of  her  deciding  she  doesn’t  want  to  live 
with  me.  I didn’t  ask  to  be  born.  I don’t  dig  it.  Who 
asked  her  anyway?  For  chrissakes,  she’s  my  mother, 
who  told  her  she  has  a choice?  What  the  fuck  are 
mothers  for  anyway?  Shit,  I’ll  fbc  her. 

I’m  hyper-mad  when  I pull-  up  in  front  of  the 
house.  It’s  okay,  in  a dumb  neighborhood,  but  the 


yard  is  kind  of  cool.  Ma  does  the  work  herself,  it’s 
good  for  her  to  keep  busy.  I don’t  think  musicians 
should  take  chances  with  their  hands  by  doing 
chores,  yardwork,  and  repairs.  I take  good  care  of 
my  hands,  man. 

The  lights  wei-e  on  inside,  she  had  the  drapes 
open  a little  and  I could  see  her  sitting  there  watch- 
ing tv.  I couldn’t  see  anybody  else  there,  which  was 
good.  If  I could  talk  to  her  alone  first,  soften  her  up 
and  then  show  some  balls  with  the  tenant,  I probably 
could  get  things  moving  without  too  much  hassle. 

I knocked  on  the  door,  politely,  even  though  I 
felt  like  kicking  it  in.  She  made  me  wait  for  a 
minute,  she  turned  down  the  tv  and  waddled  around 
to  answer  the  knock,  finally. 

“Sonny,  I told  you  on  the  phone  ...”  She 
started  to  go  on  but  I interrupted. 

“Hey  Ma,  come  on,  don’t  I get  to  visit?  I can 
at  least  visit,  I can  talk  to  you.  Man,  we  don’t  have 
to  live  together  to  be  friends.”  I could  see  her 
hesitate,  but  I was  cool,  I didn’t  even  push  against 
the  door. 

“I  guess  it  would  be  all  right,  but  just  for  a 
minute.  I like  to  tuim  in  early.” 

She  let  me  in  and  I checked  around,  but  no 
sign  of  the  intruder. 

“Where  is  ev€!ryone?” 

“Oh,  you  mean  the  tenant.  He’s  usually 
around.  Maybe  he’s  upstairs  in  his  room.” 

Man,  that  pushed  a button,  his  room,  how 
could  she?  The  hell  it  is,  I thought,  that  room  even 
has  my  initials  carved  in  the  windowsill. 

“Hey  Ma,  you’re  really  hurting  me.  You  don’t 
seem  to  understand  that  I don’t  dig  a stranger  call- 
ing that  his  room.  Fm  going  up  there  and  when  I’m 
finished  setting  him  straight  you  and  I are  gonna 
settle  this,  once  and  for  all.  This  is  Sonny’s  home,  as 
much  as  it  is  yours  and  you’d  better  not  forget  it.” 

She  didn’t  sa.y  anything,  but  this  time  she 
didn’t  shrivel  up,  looking  scared  to  say  anything 
either.  I had  a feeling  that  she  was  working  on  keep- 
ing a smile  off  her  face.  Loony  tunes,  for  sure.  Old 
age  is  like  that.  Hell,  she  must  be  more  than  fifty. 
Senile,  that’s  what  they  call  it. 

I climbed  the  stairs,  with  my  hand  on  the 
banister  that  I must  have  slid  down  a million  times. 
It  was  pretty  good  teing  a kid  in  this  place.  She  was 
easygoing  then,  I was  the  apple  of  her  eye. 

The  door  to  my  room  was  closed  so  that  I had 
to  knock.  Mom  didn’t  even  tell  me  his  name.  No  one 
ever  told  me  his  name  and  it  doesn’t  matter.  When 
he  answered  the  door  the  light  from  the  hall  was  all 
the  light  there  was.  It  was  dark  in  the  room. 

By  the  light  from  the  hall  I could  see  him  and  I 
could  almost  see  through  his  skin.  His  yellow  eyes 
were  rimmed  with  red  and  I swear  to  god,  his  teeth 
were  about  an  inch  and  a half  long.  He  stood  there 


grinning  at  me  out  of  a skull  covered  with  greenish 
see-through  skin,  his  eyes  blazing  in  the  dark. 

Then  he  stuck  out  a hand,  as  if  old  Sonny  here 
would  shake  hands  with  anything  that  had  long 
twisted  claws  on  it. 

“You  must  be  Sonny.”  He  wasn’t  human,  he 
was  something  else. 

I backed  off  and  started  running,  but  halfway 
down  the  stairs  I tripped  and  fell.  My  ankle  was 
twisted  so  bad  that  I had  to  lay  there  catching  my 
breath  on  the  front  porch  before  I could  crawl  out  to 
my  car. 

He  came  down  the  stairs  and  went  into  the  liv- 
ing room.  I could  hear  him  talking  to  Ma. 

“Your  son  seemed  to  be  in  a hurry.” 

I heard  her  laugh,  “Why  are  you  so  kind  to 
me?  Although  I do  appreciate  it.” 

“Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  you  remind  me  of 
my  mother.” 

I crawled  out  to  my  car  and  I haven’t  been 
back  since.  If  she  wants  to  live  with  a fiend  out  of 
hell,  instead  of  her  only  son,  I don’t  care.  I wouldn’t 
go  back  if  she  begged  me. 

Sometimes  I think  about  that  guy,  and  what 
bothers  me  is  that  he  looked  like  one  of  our  group, 
or  anyway,  he  looked  like  we’re  trying  to  look,  only 
he  wasn’t  trying.  Can  you  dig  it?  Ever  since,  I feel 
kind  of  uncomfortable  about  the  makeup  and 
costume.  Actually,  I’m  kind  of  looking  around  to  find 
a different  group.  I don’t  really  dig  being  a Zombie 
anymore.  iS 


63 


Home 
liHii 

by  Roger  Koch 


THERE  WAS  SOMETHING  SUBTLY  WRONG  OVER  AT  THE  MARTIN  PLACE 
AND  THOSE  DEAD  RATS  WERE  THE  LEAST  OF  IT! 


pwnihe  two  women  had  left  the  welfare  depart- 
I ment  ten  minutes  ago  in  Susan  Donaldson’s 
JR  ’73  Chevette.  It  was  now  a quarter  till  two; 
ninet^five  degrees  outside  and  a hundred  and  five  in 
the  Chevette.  The  pollution  count  was  bad;  the 
smoke  from  Susan’s  cigarette  wasn’t  helping.  On 
any  other  day  like  this  one,  Susan  would  have  cut  a 
few  comers  in  her  district  and  fled  to  her  apartment 
where,  by  two-thirty  at  the  latest,  she’d  be  enjoying 
a beer,  her  mother’s  cream  cheese  dip,  and  a can  of 
Pringles.  But  Margaret  would  keep  her  out  today  un- 
til at  least  foiu’-thirty,  and  then  Susan  would  have  to 
drive  her  back  to  her  car. 

Susan  didn’t  like  having  people  in  her  car  who 
weren’t  her  friends.  Margaret  had  a funny  way  of 
pursing  her  lips  that  distorted  the  bottom  half  of 
her  face.  She  was  doing  it  now,  while  dabbing  an 
itchy  eye  with  a Kleenex  wrapped  around  her 
index  finger. 

“By  the  way,”  Margaret  said,  “I  want  to  do 


your  evaluation  on  Monday.” 

Susan  had  been  wondering  when  she  was  go- 
ing to  get  aroimd  to  that  stupid  sheet  of  multiple 
choice  boxes:  poor,  below  average,  average,  good, 
excellent,  superior,  perfect  robot.  Margaret’s  hand- 
written comment  at  the  bottom  ol'  last  year’s  report 
card  had  read:  Sicsan’s  attit^^de  tabard  her  job  needs 
improving. 

Margaret  Chandler  had  been  her  supervisor  for 
five  years;  before  that,  a co-worker.  They  hadn’t  ex- 
actly seen  eye  to  eye  then,  but  sf)arks  hadn’t  really 
started  to  fly  until  after  Margaret’s  promotion,  when 
it  had  become  apparent  to  Susan  that  Margaret  was 
too  infested  with  the  system.  If  sh(i  kept  it  up,  Susan 
thought,  she’d  probably  get  a form  named  after  her. 
She  could  smell  the  Xerox  copies  now,  along  with 
the  air  pollution. 

Susan  pretended  she  hadn’t  heard  Margaret 
and  changed  the  subject.  “How  often  are  they  mak- 
ing you  do  these  home  visits  with  us  workers?” 


64 


Illustration  by  D.W.  Miller 


K 

Home  Visit 


Margaret  answered  with  her  unflappable  tone 
of  voice.  “They’re  not  making  us,  Susan.  It’s  not 
mandatory.” 

Sure,  Susan  thought,  and  this  is  Portland, 
Oregon.  She  was  still  stinging  from  the  evaluation 
remark  and  wondered  if  all  they  did  in  those 
meetings  was  to  teach  each  other  how  to  time  cracks 
like  that  one.  She  glanced  down  at  her  well-worn 
copy  of  The  Source  on  the  seat  between  them  and 
tried  to  remember  where  she  had  left  off.  She 
couldn’t. 

They  left  the  downtown  area  and  crossed 
Liberty  Street,  which  put  them  in  what  was  known 
as  Rhineland.  Susan  liked  to  call  it  “client  heaven.” 
On  a scummy  day  like  today  this  part  of  the  city  got 
to  her  the  worst.  It  wasn’t  just  the  saloons  and 
stripped  cars  along  the  streets,  or  the  litter  lying 
about  as  if  a nationally  televised  parade  Rad  just 
passed  through;  there  was  also  a pervading  at- 
mosphere of  incest  and  degeneracy.  Susan  had  seen 
enough  inbreds  that  it  was  easy  for  her  to  imagine 
more:  like  the  man  shambling  up  Potter  Street  who 
turned  his  head  and  grinned  as  the  Chevette  sped 
past  or  the  child  peering  through  the  window  above 
a dirt-blackened  furniture  store;  a child  with  no  nose 
to  speak  of,  just  nostrils,  and  a twisted  mouth.  They 
came  to  an  intersection  and  Susan  flipped  her 
cigarette  into  a gutter  that  smelled  like  something 
organic  was  rotting  there.  It’s  gotten  worse  over  the 
years,  she  thought,  really  worse.  She  switched  on  a 
turn  signal  and  headed  in  the  direction  of  Pullman 
Street. 

“First  on  the  agenda  is  Arthur  Hawkins,  a real 
super  guy.” 

“Vi^at  seems  to  be  the  problem?”  Margaret 

asked. 

Susan  eased  over  to  the  curb  behind  a rust- 
flecked  pickup  truck  and  pulled  on  the  emergency 
brake. 

“I’ve  sent  him  two  redetermination  forms  com- 
plete with  return  envelopes.  No  response.  I’ve  made 
two  appointments  to  visit  him.  He  wasn’t  home.  I 
thought  we’d  pay  him  a little  surprise  today.  Of 
course  I’d  rather  just  cancel  the  bastard.” 

Margaret  shot  fier  back  a look  that  could  have 
etched  crystal  at  five  hundred  yards.  “Of  course  you 
would,  Susan,  but  that’s  not  what  the  agency  is  pay- 
ing you  to  do,  is  it?” 

“The  agency  isn’t  paying  me  enough  to  do 
anything,”  Susan  muttered.  “Lock  your  door.” 

They  walked  up  two  short  flights  of  concrete 
steps.  Susan  held  her  black  notebook  tight  against 
her  blue-jean  jumpsuit.  Jesus  it’s  hot,  she  thought. 
Just  perfect  for  a sweaty  little  scene  among  the 
roaches.  She  hoped  Hawkins  wouldn’t  be  home. 

They  stepped  onto  the  porch  of  a dilapidated 
two-story  Victorian.  Susan  saw  something  move 


through  the  screen  door.  Margaret  saw  it  too  and 
stopped  dead  in  her  tracks.  It  was  a huge  short- 
haired  dog  with  pointy  ears,  standing  taut  as  a 
drawn  bow  and  not  maldng  a sound.  Then  Hawkins 
lumbered  up  behind  it.  He  was  a big  man  wearing 
a T-shirt,  looking,  and  probably  smelling,  Susan 
thought,  like  old  Swiss  cheese. 

“Yeah,  who  are  you?” 

“Miss  Donaldson.  I’m  fi’om  the  welfare 
department.” 

He  waited. 

“And  this  is  Miz  Chandler.  Also  from  the 
welfare  department.” 

“Okay,  come  in,”  said  Hawkins.  He  made  no 
attempt  to  shield  them  from  the  dog. 

They  stepped  into  the  living  room.  It  looked 
like  ■ someone  had  gotten  about  halfway  through 
repapering  the  walls  and  then  quit— about  ten  years 
ago.  Susan  sat  down  on  a cloth-covered  sofa,  as  far 
down  from  Hawkins  as  she  could  manage.  Margaret 
sat  in  a well-worn  easy  chair  and  nervously  spread 
out  her  dress,  keeping  both  eyes  on  the  dog.  Susan 
kind  of  enjoyed  that  until  she  saw  a roach  scuttle 
over  her  right  knee.  She  flicked  it  across  the  room. 

“Mr.  Hawkins,  you  haven’t  sent  in  your 
redetermination  forms.” 

Hawkins  leaned  forward.  His  stomach  rolls 
rubbed  together  like  weiner-shaped  balloons.  He 
rubbed  patches  of  beard  stubble  Avith  the  back  of  a 
hand.  “Wait  a minute  . . . Chandler  . . . you’re  the 
one  I was  gonna  call  on  Monday.  You’re  her  super- 
visor, aintcha?”  He  nodded  at  Susan. 

Margaret  looked  concerned.  “Yes.  What  did 
you  want  to  call  me  about?”  She  shot  another  laser 
beam  at  Susan. 

Arthur  Hawkins  was  smart<ir  than  Susan  had 
thought. 

“I’ve  been  tryin’  to  call  Miss  ...  uh  ... 
Donaldson  for  days.  All  I get  is  ‘She’s  away  from 
her  desk.’  I complained  to  the  secretary  and  she 
gave  me  your  number.” 

Margaret  was  in  full  control  now.  “It  seems, 
Susan,  that  you’ve  been  having  your  calls  held 
again.” 

Susan  tried  to  build  a wall  around  herself. 

“It  seems,  Susan,  that  we’re  going  to  have  to 
move  your  desk  to  wherever  it  is  you  are.  Give  Mr. 
Hawkins  the  form.” 

Susan  prickled  all  over.  She  pulled  a yellow 
sheet  out  of  her  notebook  and  handed  it  to  Hawkins. 

Margaret  stared  at  her.  “Someone  will  be  back 
next  week  to  look  it  over  and  pick  it  up.  Thank  you, 
Mr.  Hawkins.” 

Margaret  headed  for  the  door,  stepping  around 
the  dog.  As  Susan  got  up,  she  caught  a glimpse  of 
Hawkins’  small  son  standing  in  the  kitchen  shadows 
between  lines  of  wash. 


66 


Marg;aret  sat  in 
a well-wom  easy  chair 
and  nervously  spread 
out  her  dress,  keeping 
both  eyes  chi  the  dog. 
Susan  kind  of  enjoyed 
that  until  she  saw 
a roach  scuttle  over 
her  iright  knee. 


The  heat  had  turned  the  parked  Chevette  into 
a Kelvinator  at  four  hundred  and  fifty.  Susan 
opened  her  notebook  and  jotted  down  the 
day’s  date.  Then  she  wrote:  H.  V.  Arthur  Hawkins- 
left  re-form.  Supei'visor  Chandler  present.  She 
underlined  the  last  three  words  five  times. 

“You  didn’t  even  ask  him  why  he  wanted  to 
call  me.  Can’t  you  see  he  was  making  the  whole 
thing  up?” 

Margaret  rummaged  through  her  purse  for 
more  Kleenex.  “We’ll  discuss  this  on  Monday.  Let’s 
go  on.” 

Susan  turned  the  hot  steering  wheel.  “What 
would  you  think  if  I told  you  something  else  about 
Arthur  Hawkins?  His  wife  was  one  of  my  clients  two 
years  ago.  She  said  he’d  tried  to  rape  their  daughter 
twice— in  the  bathroom.” 

“I  said  we’ll  discuss  it  on  Monday  during  your 
evaluation.”  Margaret  snapped  her  purse  shut  and 
set  her  mouth. 

There  were  two  more  scheduled  visits.  At  Lula 
Mae  Palmer’s  house,  a child  swung  on  the  once- 
decorative  iron  gate  in  front— but  Lula  Mae  was  not 
at  home.  They  were  now  on  their  way  to  Alice 
Parker’s  apartment  on  Peach  Street.  Margaret  said 
something,  but  all  Susan  heard  was  the  word  agency. 

“You’re  not  listening,  Susan.  We  need  to  talk 
seriously  on  Monday  and  I think  you  know  why.” 

“All  right  Margaret,  so  you  think  my  attitude 
stinks.  I’m  not  entitled  to  give  any  opinions,  especial- 
ly on  things  like  that  damned  school  worker  calling 
me  instead  of  the  truant  officer—” 

She  instantly  I'egretted  her  words  and  almost 
slapped  herself.  Janie  Sue  Martin  was  the  last  client 
she  even  wanted  to  think  about  until  Monday— or 
forever  for  that  matter.  But  Margaret  had  heard 
enough. 

“What  about  the  Martin  case,  Susan?  You 
haven’t  done  any  followup  on  it.  The  school  has 
been  reporting  the  alssence  of  the  Martin  children  for 
three  days  now.” 


Susan  couldn’t  check  her  response.  “For 
Christ’s  sake,  do  you  know  how  many  cases  I’ve  got? 
Don’t  they  ever  call  truant  officers  anymore?  I’ve 
got  enough  to  do  without  doing  someone  else’s  job.” 

“I  don’t  think  that’s  what  the  agency  has  in 
mind.” 

She  could  feel  the  chill  of  Margaret’s  words  as 
a sweat  drop  nestled  into  the  corner  of  her  eye. 
Calm  down,  Susie,  she  thought,  you’re  going  about 
this  the  wrong  way. 

“She’s  scary,  Margaret.  She  looks  like  a 
genetic  mistake;  like  the  result  of  a whole  generation 
of  inbreeding.  She  came  to  the  office  last  year.  You 
were  off  that  day  but  just  ask  the  others.  Ask  Halli- 
day  if  he  remembers.  She  creeped  out  the  whole 
floor.  Her  eyes  were  opaque  and  her  hair  stringy  like 
an  old  corpse.  Her  mouth  was  all  sunk  in  and—” 

“Susan,  that  will  be  enough!  We  have  more  to 
discuss  on  Monday  than  I thought.” 

Susan  relinquished  and  turned  left  at  the  in- 
tersection of  Peach.  Alice  Parker  was  one  of  Susan’s 
more  talkative  clients;  a bit  touched,  as  they  say,  a 
counselor’s  nightmare.  Susan  always  dreaded  her 
visits  with  Alice.  On  the  last  one,  the  woman  had 
pinned  her  down  for  an  hour  and  a half,  crying  about 
her  life  and  her  family  who  didn’t  care.  But  now 
Susan  felt  relieved  she  had  made  another  appoint- 
ment for  today.  By  the  time  they  would  get  away 
from  Alice,  Margaret  would  be  ready  to  get  back  to 
her  car  and  the  Martin  case  could  be  indefinitely 
postponed.  Thank  God  it’s  Friday,  she  thought. 

Alice  Parker’s  apartment  was  in  a cement- 
block  complex  that  looked  like  a bombed-out 
school  building.  They  walked  past  a row  of 
broken  mailboxes,  stepping  over  splintered  two-by- 
fours  and  pieces  of  pop  bottles. 

“Here  it  is.  Number  three,”  Susan  said.  She 
could  hear  a television  through  the  apartment  door. 
She  gave  her  customary  three  quick  knocks.  Some- 
one on  the  television  said  I’ll  take  women  in  film  for 
a hundred,  Jack.  She  knocked  again.  Come  on 
Jokers,  said  the  television.  Come  on,  Alice,  Susan 
thought.  She  knocked  again. 

“I  don’t  think  she’s  home,”  said  Margaret. 
Susan  fought  back  an  overpowering  urge  to 
strangle.  “She  how  to  be  home.  She  \ooV.s,  forward  to 
my  visits.  She  knows  I’m  coming  today.”  Nice  going, 
she  thought.  Of  all  the  times  to  break  an  appoint- 
ment it  has  to  be  today,  you  stupid  fucking  whining 
bitch. 

The  door  to  the  adjoining  apartment  opened 
and  a woman  in  a robe  and  shower  thongs  leaned 
into  the  hallway. 

“She  ain’t  home.  She  got  sick  and  somebody 
came  to  get  her.” 

Susan  looked  into  the  apartment  and  saw  a 


67 


Home  Visit 


bunch  of  men  playing  cards  in  the  kitchen.  Two 
naked  children  were  crawling  under  the  table. 

“Yes.  Thank  you.  Do  you  know  where  they 
took  her?” 

“Nope,”  said  the  woman.  Then  she  closed  the 

door. 

Susan  let  out  a deep  breath  and  tried  to  smile 
it  off.  “Well  I guess  that’s  that.  I’ll  see  what  I can 
find  out  next  week.”  She  hated  herself  for  even  try- 
ing to  score  any  last-minute  points  with  Margaret. 

They  went  back  to  the  car  in  silence.  Susan 
began  to  scribble  in  her  notebook  and  noticed  that 
her  pen  was  shaking  like  the  needle  of  an  oscil- 
loscope. She  tried  to  peek  at  her  watch,  but  her  left 
arm  wouldn’t  cooperate. 

Margaret  fanned  herself  with  a copy  of  the 
staff  newsletter.  “It’s  only  ten  minutes  to  three.  I 
think  we’d  better  try  a visit  to  the  Martin  woman.” 

Susan  flushed.  “Why  don’t  we  go  back  to  the 
office.  You  could  even  start  my  evaluation  if  you—” 

“Susan,  we  already  signed  out  WNR.” 

WNR  stood  for  “will  not  return.”  If  she  could 
find  another  job  she’d  paint  those  stupid  letters  on 
the  top  of  her  desk. 

“Then  let’s  go  have  a beer.  Christ,  Margaret, 
you’re  human  too,  aren’t  you?  You’re  hot  and 
sweaty.  You’ve  put  in  your  week.  And  you’ve  gotten 
what  you  wanted  out  of  me  this  afternoon.” 

Margaret  raised  both  eyebrows  and  smiled  like 
a dentist  to  a frightened  patient. 

So  much  for  the  human  part,  thought  Susan. 
Now  she’d  really  asked  for  it.  She  tried  to  think  how 
Jake  or  anybody  at  the  Riverview  could  convince  her 
that  she  hadn’t  really  blown  it  this  time.  And  to  top 
it  all  off,  there  was  no  way  of  getting  out  of  the  visit 
to  Janie  Sue  Martin  and  maybe  even  all  of  her  five 
children.  It  sudde'nly  occurred  to  her  that  something 
about  what  she  had  just  thought  didn’t  sound  right. 
Then  she  remembered.  Six.  There  were  six  children 
now.  She  had  received  that  anonymous  call  from  a 
woman  in  the  neighborhood  claiming  that  Janie  Sue 
Martin  w^s  pregnant.  Susan  had  picked  up  a kind  of 
edginess  from  the  caller  as  if  she  were  suggesting 
Susan  do  something  about  it.  Then  she’d  hung  up 
and  all  Susan  could  think  of  was  who  in  the  world 
could  ever  have  gotten  it  up  for  Janie  Sue?  It  was 
impossible— but  so  was  immaculate  conception.  And 
Janie  Sue  already  had  five  kids.  Susan  shivered.  Last 
month,  the  anonymous  neighbor  had  called  back  say- 
ing the  child  had  been  born.  Susan  had  reluctantly 
trudged  herself  and  her  “attitude”  up  to  Water 
Street  for  a visit— but  that  was  as  far  as  she’d  gone. 
When  she'd  seen  where  she  had  to  go  to  get  to  Janie 
Sue’s  house,  she’d  quickly  changed  her  plans.  The 
house  was  on  the  slope  of  a hill;  it  had  rained  that 
day,  and  the  only  way  down  was  a steep  path  of 
soupy  mud  through  several  other  backyards. 

6t 


The  one  consoling  thought  she  had  was  that  at 
least  Margaret  would  have  to  cope  with  the  visit, 
too.  As  they  came  closer  to  Water  Street,  Susan 
tried  to  deal  with  her  anxiety.  Margaret  wasn’t  en- 
joying this  any  more  than  she  was,  except  that  she 
knew  she  was  getting  to  Susan.  All  the  other 
workers  had  cases  they  ignored,  but  nothing  was 
usually  said  about  it  unless  the  supervisor  had  it  in 
for  the  worker.  So  why  not  let  her  suffer  too?  If  she 
talked  Margaret  out  of  the  visit,  she  would  have  to 
make  it  alone  next  week.  She  gloated:  Either  I sujfer 
through  this  alone  next  week  or  you  suffer  through  it 
with  me  today,  you  bitch. 

It  was  after  they  parked  and  got  out  of  the  car 
that  Margaret  began  to  show  signs  of  weaken- 
ing. Water  Street  came  to  an  abrupt  end  a few 
hundred  feet  ahead.  It  began  again  at  the  bottom  of 
the  hillside,  down  by  the  river.  Margaret  looked 
down  at  the  obstacle  course  that  lay  ahead  of  them 
and  frowned.  Susan  pointed  to  the  Martin  house.  It 
looked  like  something  one  would  find  deep  in  the 
Okeefenokee  swamp  at  night:  a twisted,  sinking 
shamble  of  a house. 

“That’s  it,”  Susan  said. 

Margaret  stood  transfixed  and  spoke  softly 
with  genuine  human  emotion.  “Where  are  all  the 
people  who  condemn  buildings  like  these?” 

Susan  snickered.  “They’re  all  in  meetings  try- 
ing to  decide  when  to  have  their  next  one.  Gee, 
Margaret,  you  should  have  worn  your  jeans.  Come 
on.  I’m  not  working  overtime.” 

They  started  down  the  path. 

From  a back  window  of  one  of  the  houses  that 
faced  on  Water  Street  someone  stared  at  them. 

“Don’t  look  now,  Margaret,  but  I think  we’re 
being  watched.” 

By  the  time  Margaret  found  the  window  there 
were  two  more  faces. 

“Makes  you  feel  right  at  home,  doesn’t  it?” 
Susan  was  now  about  five  yards  ahead  of  her.  No 
sir,  not  a fun  day  for  you,  is  it,  Maggie  old  girl, 
Susan  thought.  She  was  beginning  to  enjoy  herself. 

They  crossed  under  three  washlines  and  passed 
an  evil-smelling  pile  of  trash.  Susan  thought  of 
“Heap,”  an  old  Mad  Magazine  takeoff  on  horror 
movies  about  a polluted  heap  of  garbage  taking 
human  form  and  mulching  through  the  Okeefenokee. 
On  her  left  she  saw  a small  boy  crawling  through  a 
twisted  maze  of  corrugated  sheet  metal.  He  didn’t 
have  a nose;  one  of  the  Martin  children. 

She  was  about  to  point  him  out  to  Margaret 
when  a huge  German  shepherd  sprang  off  the 
ground,  inches  from  Margaret’s  face.  It  nearly  broke 
its  neck  on  the  heavy  chain.  Margaret  gasped  and 
fell  forward  onto  the  path.  She  clutched  her  face  and 
rolled  over  twice.  The  shepherd  made  the  shme  leap 


! over  and  over,  but  the  chain  was  securely  fixed  to  a 
corkscrew  in  the  ground. 

Susan  flinched  but  stood  her  ground.  “He  can’t 
get  you.  You  okay?” 

i Margaret  got  up  and  smoothed  out  her  cotton- 
; polyester  dress.  Her  right  palm  was  scraped  and 
both  knees  were  dirty.  She  looked  like  a six-year-old 
on  a Sunday  picnic. 

Susan  squinted  at  her  through  the  afternoon 
sun.  “You  just  going  to  stand  there  or  what?” 

Margaret  looktid  at  the  dog  on  the  straining 
chain,  set  her  mouth,  and  started  walking  toward 
Susan. 

Then  the  Martin  boy  darted  out  of  the  sheet 
metal,  clutching  a stiff  six-inch  rat  by  its  tail. 
Margaret  gasped  again.  The  boy  stopped  and  stared 
at  them  with  opaque  blue  eyes.  Margaret  took  three 
steps  backwards.  The  boy  turned,  scampered  up  the 
Martin  porch,  and  disappeared  through  the  door. 
Susan  saw  Margaret  go  pale.  Cute  little  bugger,  isn’t 
he,  she  thought.  Betcha  can’t  wait  to  meet  his  mom. 

Margaret’s  voice  betrayed  some  good  old- 
fashioned  panic.  “I  think  we’d  better  go  back, 
Susan.” 

Susan  felt  herself  coming  to  a boil.  “But  what 
would  the  agency  say,  Margaret?  Is  that  really  what 
they’d  have  in  mind?”  She  spat  out  the  words  like  an 
overheated  actress  doing  Edward  Albee. 

Susan  stepped  onto  the  porch.  The  wood  felt 
soft  and  splintery  like  fallen  palm  leaves  after  a light 
rain.  Susan  saw  Margaret’s  hateful  stare  and 
thought  of  the  impending  evaluation  on  Monday; 
only  one  winner  would  walk  out  of  the  office.  Susan 
could  almost  taste  victory. 

“Come  on.  We  have  a job  to  do.” 

Margaret  came  up  on  the  porch. 

Susan  knocked  on  the  open  door.  There  ap- 
peared to  be  no  one  in  the  front  room.  She  stepped 
inade.  Kids  staying  home  from  school  and  playing 
with  dead  rats:  a day  in  the  life  of  a social  worker, 
she  thought.  Yuk. 

There  was  a couch  and  two  chairs.  Stuffing 


bubbled  out  of  the  cushions  like  pus.  On  the  floor, 
directly  in  front  of  her,  was  a pile  of  dung.  Susan 
thought  of  the  old  joke  the  right-wingers  at  the 
employment  office  liked  to  tell  about  the  clients:  My 
landlord  don’t  do  nuthin’.  My  kid  crapped  in  the  hall 
three  days  ago  and  he  ain’t  cleaned  it  up  yet. 

Margaret  stood  in  the  doorway. 

Susan  held  a finger  to  her  lips.  A sound,  like  a 
dog  lapping  up  water,  was  coming  from  one  of  the 
bedrooms.  She  moved  toward  it. 

“My  God,  Susan!  Don’t  go  in  there!”  Margaret 
was  losing  her  voice.  She  ran  to  Susan  and  grabbed 
her  by  the  jumpsuit. 

For  an  instant  they  both  looked  into  the  bed- 
room. Margaret  screamed  and  dug  her  fingers  into 
Susan’s  neck.  What  they  saw  was  impossible.  The 
thing  in  the  bed  with  Janie  Sue,  gnawing  and  suck- 
ing on  a dead  rat,  was  far  worse  than  anything 
Susan  had  ever  seen.  It  made  the  rest  of  the  brood 
look  like  the  Von  Trapp  children,  as  they  stood 
around  the  bed,  beaming  at  their  mom;  each  of  them 
holding  . . . offering  . . . dead  rats  by  the  tails. 

Margaret  dashed  back  across  the  living 
room— but  not  quite  all  the  way.  Floor  planks 
splintered  and  then  gave  way.  She  reached  up  and 
grabbed  at  nothing.  A balled-up  Kleenex  dropped  as 
she  opened  her  fist.  Then  she  was  gone,  and  her 
scream,  before  she  hit  bottom,  carbonated  Susan’s 
blood.  * 

In  the  next  moment  Susan  made  her  biggest 
mistake  of  the  day.  She  stopped  at  the  edge  of  the 
hole,  trying  to  see  if  Margaret  was  all  right.  Stupid- 
assed  Margaret.  She  couldn’t  see  anything,  but  the 
corner  of  her  eye  caught  the  Martin  children,  now 
ratless,  scuttling  through  the  bedroom  door.  She 
flailed  out  at  the  oldest  and  struck  him  on  the  side  of 
his  head.  The  notebook  fell  out  of  her  hand.  Arms 
circled  around  her  legs  like  tentacles  around  a deep- 
sea  diver. 

She  cried  out,  “No!  Holy  Jesus  God  in  Heaven 

no!” 

She  went  through  the  hole  head  first  and  land- 
ed on  Margaret’s  breast,  which  already  teemed  with 
tickling,  invisible  roaches.  Margaret  was  either  dead 
or  in  shock;  she  didn’t  make  a sound.  Susan  slapped 
away  in  a frenzy  at  the  roaches,  making  sounds  in 
her  throat  she’d  never  made  before. 

It  didn’t  take  long  for  her  eyes  to  see  through 
the  darkness  of  the  cellar  and  pick  out  the  thing  that 
was  crawling  in  her  direction.  She  screamed  and 
looked  up  through  the  hole.  Janie  Sue  and  her 
children  peered  down  at  her  with  toothless  fascina- 
tion. As  the  foul  shape  reached  her  and  chomped 
through  her  leg,  all  she  could  think  of  was  the 
children  . . . and  how  they  favored  their  mom. 

Not  like  the  thing  in  the  bedroom  . . . which 
was  the  spitting  image  of  its  dad.  10 


69 


WAS  SHE  A WITCH,  OR  JUST  A CRAZY  OLD  LADY? 
THE  ANSWER  (ENOUGH  TO  MAKE  YOU  SCREAM) 
LAY  HIDDEN  IN  THE  DARKNESS  OF  ■ ■ ■ 


Mrs.  Half boogers 
Basemenf 

by  Lawrence  C.  Connolly 

It  was  early  summer.  It  was  early  night.  And  “Maybe  I can  come  down  there  and  break  your 

Mrs.  Halfbooger  hadn’t  been  out  of  the  house  in  nose.”  Max  was  standing  on  an  old  7-Up  case  that 
nearly  a week,  the  group  of  nine-year-old  boys  Buckeye  had  found  lying  by  the  creek.  Buckeye  had 
noticed.  picked  it  up,  figuring  it  was  valuable,  but  Max  had 

Buckeye  was  thinking  seriously  about  going  taken  it  from  him.  Max  was  one  of  the  bad  things 
home  when  Max  Swarlson  got  the  window  open,  that  had  entered  Buckeye’s  life  since  being  thrown 
Lanny  Rosenberg  looked  at  Max’s  puffed  cheeks,  out  of  Mother  of  Christ  Elementary  School.  If  it 
then  up  at  the  window,  then  back  at  Max.  “Can’t  hadn’t  been  for  Max,  Thomas  Edison  Elementary 
you  do  any  better?”  might  have  been  heaven.  Most  of  the  new  friends 

Max  stopped  straining  against  the  window  and  he’d  met  there  were  pretty  wimpy,  except  for  Max. 
looked  down  at  Lanny  like  he  was  looking  at  a mag-  “Sure  don’t  look  very  wide.  Max,”  said  Willy 

got.  “Maybe  you  can  do  better,  booger  face.”  Haynek,  standing  on  his  toes  to -get  a look  at  the 

“Maybe  I can  but  don’t  want  to.”  open  window. 

70 


Illustration  by  Ahmet  Gorgun 


Max  gave  another  push.  “I  think  it’s  warped, 
or  something.” 

“Can  you  get  through?”  asked  Lanny. 

“What  do  I look  like?  A rail?” 

“What  about  Sean?”  asked  Lanny.  ■“!  bet  Sean 
could  get  through.” 

Max  smiled.  “Hey,  yeah.”  He  looked  around. 
“Hey,  Buckeye!  What’re  you  doing  over  there. 
Buckeye?” 

That  was  another  thing  Buckeye  didn’t  like 
about  Max.  Max  called  him  Buckeye  like  it  was 
something  creepy,  and  it  made  him  feel  like  a weirdo 
every  time  the  fat  kid  said  it.  He  was  beginning  to 
wish  he’d  never  told  anyone  at  Edison  that  his  old 
friends  had  called  him  Buckeye. 

Not  that  it  mattered.  Max  went  through  life 
looking  for  things  to  pick,  on,  and  Buckeye,  who’d 
had  an  accident  with  a garden  rake  a few  years 
back,  was  an  easy  mark.  It’s  hard  not  to  be  obvious 
with  a left  eye  that  looks  like  a horse  chestnut. 

“Hey,  Buckeye!  You  dreaming,  or  what?  Get 
over  here.” 

“What?” 

“You’re  going  inside,”  said  Max. 

Buckeye  looked  at  the  tight  space  between 
window  and  window  sill.  The  light  was  bad.  The  sun 
had  gone  down.  The  round  summer  moon  wasn’t  up 
yet.  And  there  wasn’t  much  to  see— a thin  strip  of 
darker  shadow  in  the  dusk-gray  wall  of  old  Mrs. 
Halfbooger’s  house. 

The  house  was  an  old  thing  with  peeling  wood 
and  sagging  gutters.  And  it  leaned— though  that 
wasn’t  so  noticeable  up  close.  Up  close  it  just  looked 
old— almost  as  old  as  Mrs.  Halfbooger,  who  was  at 
least  a hundred.  You  could  tell  she  was  a himdred  by 
the  way  she  walked.  Mrs.  Halfbooger  was  the  stoop- 
ingest  woman  in  West  Fenton. 

The  four  of  th(;m  had  been  watching  her  nearly 
three  weeks  now,  sitting  across  the  creek,  on  a tree- 
covered  hill  almost  as  high  as  the  one  Mrs. 
Halfbooger  lived  on.  They  would  sit  in  Lanny’s  tree 
fort,  drink  Orange  (Drush,  and  fight  over  Buckeye’s 
telescope. 

There  wasn’t  much  to  see.  Her  name  was  Eva 
Hofburger.  Calling  her  Halfbooger  had  started  as  a 
joke.  No  one  laughed  at  the  joke  anymore,  but  the 
name  lingered  out  of  habit. 

She  was  fifteen  years  a widow  and  all  her  life 
lonely.  Albert  Hofburger  had  “lived  away”  for  the 
better  part  of  the  marriage.  They  had  no  children. 
And  all  the  boys  ever  got  to  see  from  their  across- 
the-creek  tree  fort  were  the  comings  and  goings  of 
an  old,  empty-eyed  woman.  Sometimes  she  would 
return  home  carrying  packages  from  Kiddy  Mart. 
Other  times  she  would  go  out  an  hour  or  so  before 
dark  and  not  return  until  after  the  boys  had  gone 
home  . . . 


But  these  were  mysteries  too  mundane  for 
nine-year-old  boys  looking  to  fill  an  empty  summer. 
They  watched  her  because  the  tree  fort  made  it 
handy.  They  made  her  a witch  because  she  was  old. 

They  would  watch  her  driving  away,  spotted 
hand  perched  on  the  steering  wheel  of  her  ’47 
Buick,  and  they  would  scare  themselves  silly  with 
made-up  stories  about  where  she  was  going— about 
things  she  was  going  to  do.  They  filled  their  stories 
with  monsters,  and  ghouls,  and  werewolves,  and 
bloodsuckers  . . . 

But  they  didn’t  start  getting  close  to  the  real 
horror  until  one  day  when  Mrs.  Halfbooger  didn’t  go 
out.  That  had  been  Tuesday. 

They  didn’t  see  her  Wednesday  either. 

They  saw  her  Thursday  evening.  She  came  out 
dressed  in  neat  old-lady  clothes  and  stood  by  the 
Buick.  She  looked  sick.  Lanny  had  the  telescope,  but 
the  other  three  could  tell  just  as  well  without  it.  She 
put  her  hand  on  the  hood  and  stared  down  the  hill, 
out  toward  the  road  that  led  to  Kiddy  Mart,  out  at 
the  setting  sun  and  the  hazy  glow  that  was 
Philadelphia.  She  stood  that  way  a long  time.  Then 
she  wiped  her  eyes  and  went  back  inside. 

She  didn’t  come  out  Friday. 

Saturday  it  rained.  The  tree  fort  didn’t  have  a 
roof,  so  they  got  together  at  Willy’s  and  told  stories 
about  her. 

When  she  didn’t  aome  out  Sunday,  Max  said 
they  ought  to  go  see  if  she  was  dead.  But  they 
didn’t. 

Nor  did  they  go  when  she  didn’t  come  out 
Monday. 

But  when  it  was  'Tuesday  again— when  the 
long  boring  afternoon  began  fading  to  dusk,  they 
decided  to  have  a look.  And  a look  was  all  it  was 
supposed  to  have  been  until  Max  got  the  window 
open. 

Buckeye  stared  at  the  window  and  wondered  if 
being  part  of  this  was  such  a good  idea. 

“I  don’t  think  I’ll  fit.  Max.” 

“Don’t  be  a creep.  You  haven’t  even  tried.” 

“What  am  I supposed  to  do  if  I get  in  there?” 

Max  jumped  down  from  the  7-Up  case.  He  was 
fat— probably  the  fattest  kid  Buckeye  had  ever  seen. 
There  were  a few  older  kids  at  Edison  who  could  get 
away  with  calling  him  Maximum  Swanson  or  even 
Tiny  Tuba.  But  the  only  nine-year-old  who’d  ever 
tried  it  had  ended  up  having  to  eat  a green  fly  before 
Max  would  get  off  him.  That  kid  had  been  Buckeye. 
And  the  green  fly  had  been  worth  it. 

“When  you  get  in  there,”  said  Max,  “you  open 
the  front  door  and  let  us  in.” 

“What  if  it  won’t  open?”  said  Buckeye. 

“Don’t  be  stupid.  It’s  a door,  isn’t  it?  It’s  just 
locked— that’s  all.  All  you  have  to  do  is  slide  inside 
and  unlock  it.” 


71 


Mrs.  Half  boogers  Basement 


“Maybe  he  doesn’t  want  to,”  said  Willy,  who’d 
been  looking  at  the  house  and  thinking  there  might 
be  Dangerous  Things  inside.  Dangerous  Things  to 
Willy  usually  meant  animals.  It  didn’t  matter  what 
kind.  If  it  was  larger  than  a squirrel  it  was  a 
Dangerous  Thing. 

But  Max  wasn’t  taking  arguments.  His  arms 
were  already  wrapping  around  Buckeye.  “Naw,  he 
wants  to  go  in  there.  Don’t  you.  Buckeye?”  Max 
heaved  him  up  and  set  him  on  the  7-Up  case. 
Buckeye  looked  down  and  saw  the  red-lettered 
slogan  between  his  summer-torn  sneakers:  YOU 
LIKE  IT,  IT  LIKES  YOU. 

He  looked  through  the  open  space  below  the 
window.  “It  smells  funny  in  there.” 

“C’mon,  Buckeye.  Try  it!” 

Buckeye  stuck  his  head  through  the  crack.  The 
room  smelled  old. 

“What  do  you  see?”  asked  Willy. 

Buckeye  looked  through  the  dimness.  The 
room  was  Ml  of  old  furnitmfe.  A table.  Chairs.  A 
sofa  with  its  insides  starting  to  come  through.  The 
wallpaper  was  water-stained— in  some  places  it  had 
crumbled  away.  Flaking  paint  hung  from  the  ceiling. 
The  floor  was  bare,  and  in  it,  below  the  window, 
was  a grill-covered  hole  that  went  through  to  what 
looked  to  be  the  basement. 

“Looks  spooky,”  said  Buckeye. 

“Can  you  get  through?”  said  Max. 

“I  don’t  know.  It’s  awful  tight.” 

“Like  fun!”  said  Max,  and  Buckeye  felt  the  fat 
boy’s  hands  close  on  his  ankles,  lifting  him  off  the 
pop  case. 

“Hey!” 

Buckeye  slid  forward  until  he  dangled  from  the 
waist,  looking  down  at  the  floor.  Something  slipped 
from  his  shirt  pocket.  It  fell,  landed  on  the  floor, 
stood  on  edge  ...  It  teetered,  a one-legged  dancer 
going  off  balance.  And  then  it  fell— sideways,  right 
through  the  grill-covered  hole  in  the  floor. 

“My  key!” 

“WTiat’d  he  say?”  asked  Max. 

“Monkey!”  shrieked  Willy,  thinking  of  Dan- 
gerous Things. 

Max  climbed  up  beside  Buckeye,  looking 
through  the  dirty  glass.  “There  ain’t  no  monkey  in 
there.” 

Buckeye  knew  there  was  no  way  out  of  it 
now.  He  was  going  inside.  The  key  was  his 
mother’s  only  one  to  the  front  door.  She’d 
given  it  to  him  earlier  that  day  so  he  could  let 
himself  in  while  she  was  up  the  street  having  tea 
with  Mrs.  Gruber.  It  was  a silly  thing,  always  having 
to  lock  the  door.  His  mother  was  a lot  like  Willy. 
Everything  scared  her— especially  things  she  read  in 
the  newspaper.  Lately  she’d  been  worrying  about 
72 


Buckeye  not  being  home  by  eight-thirty  each  night. 
It  had  something  to  do  with  the  Philadelphia  Missing 
Persons  Bureau  not  being  able  to  locate  some  miss- 
ing kids.  Usually  Buckeye  got  in  the  house  at  a 
quarter  to  nine,  and  usually  he  got  strapped  for  it. 
He  wished  his  mom  would  stop  reading  the  paper. 

And  he  wished  he’d  rememtered  to  return  the 
key  when  she’d  gotten  back  from  Mrs.  Gruber’s. 

“I  said,  my  key.  It  fell  through  the  floor.” 

She  was  going  to  kill  him  this  time.  She  was 
going  to  take  the  television  and  pitch  his  comic 
books.  She  was  going  to  put  a lock  on  his  bike  and 
make  him  be  an  altar  boy  like  wimpy  Stevie  Steedle. 
She  was  going  to  come  down  on  him  the  same  way 
she  had  the  morning  after  he  and  Timmy  Baker 
broke  into  the  Catholic  school  looking  for  vam- 
pires—only  this  time  it  was  going  to  be  worse  . . . 

He  didn’t  realize  he  was  all  the  way  inside  the 
house  until  he  turned  around  and  saw  Max  staring  at 
him  through  the  dirty  window. 

“He  got  through,”  Max  was  saying.  “You  see 
that?  The  little  creep  went  right  through.” 

Buckeye  looked  around.  The  room  looked 
creepier  from  all  the  way  in.  There  was  a closed-up 
smell,  like  the  room  was  full  of  last  year’s  air. 

He  got  on  his  knees  and  looked  through  the 
grill  on  the  floor— nothing  there.  Nothing  but  dark- 
ness. He  was  going  to  have  to  look  in  the  basement. 

Max  banged  on  the  window.  “Hey,  Buckeye! 
How  about  the  door?” 

He  looked  up.  All  three  boys  were  standing  on 
the  pop  case  now— their  faces  pressed  against  the 
dirty  glass.  Willy  was  on  one  side,  his  uncombed  hair 
sticking  out  everywhere.  He  looked  scared.  Lanny 
was  on  the  other  side,  looking  more  sure  of  himself. 
Max  was  in  the  middle.  Buckeye  thought  they  looked 
like  Moe,  Larry,  and  Curly. 

“C’mon,  creepo!  The  door!” 

He  stepped  out  of  the  room  and  moved  into  a 
wide  hall.  There  was  a light  SMvitch  on  the  wall. 
He  snapped  it.  A bulb  came  on  in  the  high  ceiling. 
Weak  forty-watt  light  oozed  down  the  faded  walls, 
spreading  out  over  the  floor.  He  could  see  the 
wallpaper  design  dimly  now.  It  was  a flower  design, 
flowers  and  children  dancing  in  floor-to-ceiling 
helices— all  but  scrubbed  away  from  too  many 
washings.  The  ceiling  was  the  same  as  the  other 
room’s,  cracked  and  peeling.  The  floor  was  the  same 
too,  bare  and  wooden. 

He  came  to  the  front  door,  wrapped  his  hands 
around  the  knob  and  tried  turning.  It  wouldn’t 
turn.  He  tried  pulling.  Pulling  didn’t  work  either.  He 
kicked  it  with  his  foot  and  hit  it  with  his  hand.  No 
good.  It  was  locked  on  both  sides. 

He  kicked  it  again.  It  was  like  kicking  a tree. 

Buckeye  went  back  to  the  'vindow. 

“It  won’t  open,”  he  said. 


Willy  was  on  one  side. . . 

He  looked  scared. 

Lanny  was  on  the  other 
side,  looking  more 
sure  of  himself. 

Max  was  in  the  middle. 
Buckeye  thought  they  looked 
like  Moe,  Larry,  and  Curly. 


Max  looked  mad.  Lanny  and  Willy  looked 
ready  to  leave. 

Max  said,  “Maybe  we  should  smash  in  the 
window.” 

“Isn’t  that  against  the  law?”  said  Willy.  And, 
when  Max  didn’t  answer:  “I’m  going  home.” 

“Hey,  wait  a minute!”  Buckeye  leaned  out  the 
window.  “We  gotta  Imd  my  key.” 

“How’re  we  gonna  do  that  if  you  won’t  let  iis 
in?”  said  Max. 

Willy  said,  “Let’s  go  home.  Max.” 

Max  pretended  he  didn’t  hear.  “What’s  it  like 
in  there.  Buckeye?” 

“Just  an  old  house.” 

“Is  the  witch  in  there?” 

“I  didn’t  see  her.” 

“This  isn’t  even  fun,”  said  Lanny,  who  was 
now  standing  where,  a short  time  ago.  Buckeye  had 
been  thinking  about  going  home.  “Come  on,  Sean. 
Get  out  of  there  and  let’s  go.” 

“But  my  key!”  said  Buckeye. 

“Is  it  that  important?”  asked  Willy. 

“They’ll  kill  me!”  he  said. 

“You  guys  are  a bunch  of  queers,”  said  Max. 

“Okay,”  said  Lanny.  “We’ll  wait  for  you.” 

“Hurry,”  said  Willy.  “I  don’t  like  it  here.” 

“I  don’t  like  your  face,”  said  Max. 

And  Buckeye  slid  his  shoulders  and  head  back 
through  the  window.  He  looked  one  more  time 
through  the  glass,  then  turned  back  into  the  hall, 
wondering  why  this  stuff  always  happened  to  him. 

This  time  he  turned  the  other  way,  moving 
deeper  into  the  house,  passing  a dark  second-floor 
stairway.  There  was  a room  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 
The  weak  ceiling  light  spilled  into  it,  and  he  could 
see  a table,  some  cabinets,  and— dimly  at  first— hear 
water  running.  He  thought  of  turning  back,  forget- 
ting the  key,  taking  his  chances  at  home  . . . 

The  water  stopped  running.  Footsteps  moved 
toward  the  hall.  A little  face  peeked  aroimd  the  door. 

For  a brief,  gut-stabbing  moment.  Buckeye 
was  sure  he  was  going  to  pee  his  pants.  Then  the  in- 
itial fear  vanished,  and,  as  the  after-shocks  echoed 
through  him,  he  realized  it  was  a little  girl. 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a long  time. 
Buckeye  expected  her  to  call  the  old  woman.  But  she 
didn’t.  She  only  stood  there,  and  finally  she  asked. 


“Are  you  new?” 

“Huh?” 

“What  happened  to  your  eye?” 

Her  hair  was  dark.  She  was  pretty.  “I  had  a 
fight  with  a vulture,”  he  said.  It  was  the  usual  story 
he  used  to  impress  people.  “I  had  to  break  its  neck.” 

“Oh.”  She  had  a glass  of  water  in  her  hand. 
She  drank  some  and  poured  the  rest  on  the  floor.  “I 
heard  you  moving  around.  I thought  maybe  you  were 
Billy  or  Paul.  But  I don’t  know  you.” 

“I  just  got  here.” 

“You  didn’t  come  with  her?” 

“I  came  with  Max.” 

“Max  Palmer?”  she  asked. 

“Uh-uh.  Max  Swanson.” 

“I  don’t  know  him  either.” 

“I— I’m  really  not  supposed  to  be  here,”  he 
said.  “I  lost  my  mom’s  key,  see.  And  I think  it  fell 
into  your  basement.” 

She  looked  confused. 

“It  was  Max’s  idea,”  he  said.  “I  wouldn’t  even 
be  here  except  he  couldn’t  fit  through  the  window 
. . . Could  you  show  me  where  the  basement  is?” 

“You  don’t  know?” 

“No.” 

“Oh,  my.” 

Laughter  rolled  from  the  upstairs. 

Four  boys  came  tumbling  down  the  steps. 
Three  were  riding  pillows,  one  was  riding  the 
banister.  They  got  to  the  bottom  and  started  pelting 
one  another  with  the  pillows. 

They  stopped  when  they  saw  Buckeye. 

“What  happened  to  your  eye?” 

“A  vulture,”  said  the  girl. 

There  were  more  questions,  almost  identical  to 
the  girl’s. 

One  of  the  boys  took  out  a crayon  and  started 
drawing  on  the  wall.  Buckeye  watched.  The  crayon 
made  a big  face  with  a long  nose,  squinty  eyes, 
glasses— it  was  the  old  woman. 

Buckeye  asked,  “Won’t  you  get  in  trouble?” 

The  face  had  big  lips  and  a long  tongue.  The 
tongue  stuck  straight  out,  catching  snot  from  the 
running  nose.  The  artist  said,  “What’s  she  going  to 
do  to  us?” 

“You  ought  to  go  upstairs,”  said  another. 
“She’s  still  in  bed.  Dying  maybe.” 

“Is  she  your  grandmother?”  asked  Buckeye. 

“Naw,”  said  another.  “She’d  just  like  to  be. 
Silly  old  bag.  Did  you  really  come  through  the 
window?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Then  for  sure  you  have  to  go  up  there.  You’ll 
scare  the  daylights  out  of  her,  I bet.  Get  up  real 
close  and  look  at  her  with  yoxu-  eye.  Can  you  see 
through  it?” 

“No.” 


73 


r 


Mrs.  Half  boogers  Basement 


“Then  just  pretend.  She  hasn’t  given  a good 
yell  all  day.” 

Buckeye  looked  at  the  stairs. 

“Go  on.” 

There  was  more  laughter  upstairs.  Girls  and 

boys. 

“I’ve  really  got  to  get  my  key.” 

“I’ll  get  it  for  you,”  said  the  girl.  “You  go 

up.” 

“She  won’t  be  mad?”  he  asked.  “I  mean,  I sort 
of  broke  in.” 

“But  that’s  the  idea,”  said  the  boy  with  the 
crayon.  “The  idea  is  to  get  her  mad.  The  old  creep.” 

Buckeye  looked  up  the  stairs.  The  boys  got 
behind  him  and  started  pushing.  And  before  he  knew 
it,  he  was  starting  up. 

The  stairs  were  narrow  and  full  of  the  same 
stuffy  smell  he’d  noticed  when  first  coming  into  the 
house.  He  turned  on  another  light  and  saw  that  the 
stairway  walls  were  covered  with  more  drawings.  He 
moved  past  them,  stepping  iifto  the  second-floor  hall 
just  as  another  band  of  kids  burst  through  a door  at 
the  hall’s  end.  They  plowed  into  him,  grabbing 
the  banister,  making  screeching-tire  sounds  as  they 
turned,  starting  down.  One  of  the  kids  looked  at 
him  and  stopped.  “Oh,  we  got  her  good  this  time. 
Boy,  did  we  ever!” 

And  then  they  were  gone,  tumbling  down, 
spilling  into  the  first  floor,  laughing,  screaming, 
yelling. 

Buckeye  looked  at  the  open  door  down  the  hall 
and  turned  on  another  light.  There  was  writing  on 
the  wall  beside  the  door— large  letters  in  black 
crayon:  HOME  OF  THE  CAVE  HOG. 

He  moved  toward  it,  set  his  hand  on  the  door, 
and  peeked  inside.  Mrs.  Halfbooger  lay  in  bed,  look- 
ing old  and  sick.  There  was  a mound  of  dirt  sitting 
on  top  of  her,  spilling  over  the  bed  and  onto  the 
floor.  They’d  gotten  her  good,  all  right. 

He  eased  into  the  room,  stepping  softly,  com- 
ing alongside  the  bed.  She  looked  even  older  up 
close,  almost  like  a skeleton.  It  hardly  seemed  there 
was  a body  under  the  blankets,  under  the  dirt.  She 
opened  her  eyes  and  saw  him.  He  was  looking  at  the 
dirt  and  didn’t  know  she  was  watching  until  she 
whispered,  “Which  one  are  you?” 

He  jumped,  turning  to  look  . . . 

“I  didn’t  bring  you  here,”  she  said. 

“No,”  he  said.  He  looked  at  her,  afraid  to  say 
much  else,  looking  at  how  her  faded  gray  skin  pulled 
across  chin  and  cheeks— the  facial  bones  looked  near- 
ly sharp  enough  to  break  through. 

At  last  he  said,  “They  put  dirt  on  you.” 

She  looked  down,  wincing.  It  was  as  though 
she  were  seeing  the  dark  mound  for  the  first  time. 
Her  head  trembled  and  fell  back  again,  barely  press- 
ing a dent  in  the  pillow.  “From  the  basement,”  she 


said.  “They’ve  made  a mess  of  my  basement,  you 
know?”  She  breathed  deep,  or  tried  to.  Her  face 
buckled,  showing  an  empty  mouth,  dark  gums. 
“They  spite  me,”  she  said.  “All  I want  is  to  love 
them,  and  they  spite  me.” 

“Are  you  their  aunt,  or  something?” 

“No.  I just  brought  them  here.  All  I wanted 
...  all  that  I ...  all  that  . . . What’s  your  name?” 

“Sean.” 

“That’s  a nice  name  . . . nice  . . . nice  ...  I 
bought  them  things,  you  know?  I would  buy  them 
things  and  go  driving.  I’d  bring  things  home  and 
wrap  them  up  nice  . . . and  I’d  go  driving  . . . and 
sometimes  I’d  see  a boy  or  a girl  playing  alone,  and 
I’d  go  talk  to  them.  I know  all  about  being  alone, 
you.  know?  All  about  it.  I’d  tell  them  I had  presents 
and  they’d  come  ...  to  the  car.  And  we’d  unwrap 
things  and  sing  and  drive  away  ....  Nobody  ever 
suspects  an  old  woman.  I’d  walk  away  with  them 
...  I’d  drive  away  with  them  . . . and  nobody  ever 
suspected  that  . . . that  ....  Did  you  tell  me  your 
name?” 

“Sean.” 

“Yes.  That’s  right.  I didn’t  bring  you  here, 
did  I?” 

“I  came  through  the  window.” 

“I  should  buy  you  something  too,  Sean.  When 
I get  better  we’ll  drive  down  to  Kiddy  Mart  and  get 
you  . . . get  you  . . . whatever  . . . anything  you 
want.  We’ll  wrap  it  too,  so  you  can  open  it  . . . like 
Christmas  or  a birthday  ....  When  I’m  better. 
When  the  headaches  stop.  Oh  my,  but  I do  get  the 
headaches.  Like  battering  rams  ...” 

“You  don’t  have  to  buy  me  things.” 

There  was  a crazy  look  on  her  face— a spastic, 
thin-lipped  scowl.  “I  be  so  nice  to  them  and  they  get 
like  this.  They  say  they  don’t  want  to  stay  and  I 
have  to  . . . make  them  . . . and  they  get  like  this. 
You  should  see  the  basement.  Oh  my  ...  I try  so 
hard  and  they  get  like  this  ...” 

“Want  me  to  push  off  some  of  this  dirt?” 

“Dirt?” 

“They  put  dirt  on  your  bed.  Remember?” 

She  looked  up  again.  “Oh,  dear  me.  I thought 
that  was  yesterday  ...  or  ....  Isn’t  it  something 
how  it’s  all  gotten  outside  my  head  like  this.  Push  it 
off  for  me.  Oh  yes.” 

He  leaned  over  and  started  shoving  heaped 
clay  onto  the  floor.  It  thumped  on  the  wooden 
boards. 

“You’re  different,  aren’t  you?”  she  said.  “I 
won’t  have  to  make  you  stay.” 

“Stay?” 

“With  me.  Like  a family.” 

“Never  go  home?”  he  asked. 

“This  can  be  your  home.” 

There  was  an  awful  look  on  her  face.  Buckeye 


74 


that  right  now  I’ve  got  to  leave  and—” 


“No!”  Her  head  rose  off  the  pillow.  Her  yellow 
eyes  turned  ugly— like  01’  Teller’s  eyes  right  before 
they  shot  him. 

And  suddenly  he  remembered  the  key  and  the 
three  friends  waiting  outside. 

“I  gotta  go.” 

He  turned  and  ran  toward  the  stairs,  stopping 
once  to  see  if  she  was  following.  She  wasn’t.  Her 
head  had  fallen  back  again.  Her  eyes  were  shut.  But 
he  was  scared  now.  The  woman  was  nuts. 

He  ran  down  the  stairs,  looking  for  the  other 
kids,  looking  for  the  g^rl  who’d  promised  to  find  the 
key.  But  they  weren’t  in  the  hall.  They  weren’t  in 
the  kitchen,  either. 

“Hey!”  he  shouted. 

No  answer.  Only  his  own  echo  in  the  lonely 
house. 

There  was  a door  open  by  the  stove— a door 
with  steps  leading  down.  They’d  gone  to  the 
basement.  He  leaned  inside  the  door  and 
fumbled  for  a light.  There  was  no  switch  on  the  wall. 
He  looked  around.  Above  his  head  a dirty  string 
dangled  from  a bare  bulb.  He  pulled.  The  light  came 
on.  And  below  him,  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  was 
another  string— another  bare  bulb. 

He  moved  down.  “Hey,  you  guys.  You  down 
here?  What’re  you  doing  in  the  dark  any—?”  He 
pulled  the  second  string.  The  second  light  came  on, 
and  at  first  he  thought  the  basement  was  empty. 

Then  he  saw  them.  All  in  rows.  Ten  neat  little 
mounds  rising  out  of  the  basement  floor. 

And  on  one  of  them  was  the  key. 

He  walked  tov^ard  it,  head  spinning.  You 
should  see  the  basement  ...  I try  so  hard  and  they 
get  like  this  . . . 

■ He  fell,  dropping  to  grass-stained  knees.  What 
kind  of  crazy  woman  would  . . . ? 

His  hands  shot  toward  the  key,  sinking  past  it, 
clawing  at  the  soft  mound  of  dirt.  They  say  they 


don’t  want  to  stay  and  I have  to  make  them  . . . 

And  then  he  saw. 

And  then  he  was  up,  running,  stumbling,  fall- 
ing up  the  stairs,  through  the  hall.  There  were  no 
pictures  on  the  wall.  No  kids  in  the  kitchen. 

He  tripped  and  skidded  into  the  dark  living 
room.  The  moon  was  up,  glowing  thinly  through  the 
trees,  through  the  window. 

The  window  looked  like  the  other  side  of  the 
world. 

He  pulled  himself  up  and  ran.  Scared.  Thinking 
of  the  woman.  Thinking  of  her  coming  down  the 
stairs.  Thinking  of  her  grabbing  him  as  he  squeezed 
through  the  window,  holding  him  with  cold  dead 
fingers,  pulling  him,  dragging  him  to  the  basement. 
Oh,  God,  please,  this  is  Buckeye  talking.  Get  me  mt 
of  here  and  I’U  be  Pope  . . . anything  you  want  . . . 
just  get  me  out  of  here! 

He  was  halfway  through,  struggling,  pulling, 
praying  a blue  streak  he  wouldn’t  get  stuck.  And 
then  he  was  falling,  tumbling.  The  ground  raced  up. 
He  hit  and  rolled,  losing  his  wind,  but  scrambling  up 
anyway— scrambling  to  his  feet  and  running  down 
the  hill. 

The  creek  was  cold.  He  splashed  through  the 
deep  part,  forgetting  the  stones. 

They  hadn’t  waited.  None  of  them.  Not  even 
Max— big-talking  Max  who  wasn’t  afraid  of  anything. 
They’d  all  gone  home.  Of  maybe  they’d  been  back 
there  hiding,  waiting  for  him  to  come  through 
the  window  so  they  could  jump  out  at  him.  Maybe 
they  were  still  back  there,  wondering  what  had 
happened  . . . 

It  didn’t  matter.  Nothing  mattered.  There  was 
only  running.  There  was  only  getting  away  from  the 
house. 

He  ran  past  Lanny’s  tree  fort  and  then  down 
the  hill  to  the  highway  and  then  across  the  field  to 
home.  His  stomach  hurt.  His  chest  hurt.  His  clothes 
were  wet  from  the  creek  and  there  were  splinters  in 
his  hands  from  falling  in  the  house. 

But  he  didn’t  stop.  He  kept  seeing  the  little 
face  in  the  shallow  grave.  The  little  eyes  that  hadn’t 
closed.  The  little  nose.  The  dark  hair.  She  wasn’t  so 
pretty  after  lying  in  the  dirt  all  that  time. 

And  then  he  was  on  his  street.  He  was  turning 
the  bend,  climbing  the  walk.  Home.  The  door.  He  fell 
against  the  screen,  forgetting  the  key,  pounding, 
kicking  . . . 

The  television  was  on  inside.  Laughter.  A 
family  show.  Happy  people.  Happy  endings. 

His  mother  moved  toward  the  door.  “You’ve 
done  it  this  time,  Sean.  It’s  after  nine.  Don’t  you 
know  there’s  crazy  people  out  . . .?” 

But  he  didn’t  hear.  There  was  only  the  little 
girl  looking  at  him  from  the  dirt  halo.  There  was 
only  the  sound  of  his  own  screams.  fS 
J 


75 


■'  #1.  , 


The  Broken  Hoop 


by  Pamela  Sargent 


TORN  BETWEEN  TWO  CULTURES,  SHE  ALSO 'HAD 
TO  CHOOSE  BETWEEN  TWO  WORLDS— 
AND  ONLY  ONE  OF  THEM  WAS  REAL. 


There  are  other  worlds.  Perhaps  there  is  one 
in  which  my  jaeople  rule  the  forests  of  the 
northeast,  and  there  may  even  be  one  in 
which  white  men  and  red  men  walk  together  as 
friends. 

I am  too  old  now  to  make  my  way  to  the  hill. 
When  I was  younger  and  stronger,  I would  walk 
there  often  and  strain  my  ears  trying  to  hear  the 
sounds  of  warriors  on  the  plains  or  the  stomping  of 
buffalo  herds.  But  last  night,  as  I slept,  I saw  Little 
Deer,  a cloak  of  buffalo  hide  over  his  shoulders,  his 
hair  white;  he  did  not  speak.  It  was  then  that  I knew 
his  spirit  had  left  his  body. 

Once,  I believed  that  it  was  God’s  will  that  we 
remain  in  our  own  worlds  in  order  to  atone  for  the 
consequences  of  our  actions.  Now  I know  that  He 
can  show  some  of  us  His  mercy. 

I am  a Mohawk,  but  I never  knew  my  parents. 
Perhaps  I would  have  died  if  the  Lemaitres  had  not 
taken  me  into  their  home. 

I learned  most  of  what  I knew  about  my  peo- 
ple from  two  women.  One  was  Sister  Jeanne  at 
school,  who  taught  me  shame.  From  her  I learned 


that  my  tnbe  had  been  murderers,  pagans,  eaters  of 
human  flesh.  One  of  the  tales  she  told  was  of  Father 
Isaac  Jogues,  tortured  to  death  by  my  people  when 
he  tried  to  tell  them  of  Christ’s  teachings.  'The  other 
woman  was  an  old  servant  in  the  Lemaitres’  kitchen; 
Nawisga  told  me  legends  of  a proud  people  who 
ruled  the  forests  and  called  me  little  Manaho,  after 
a princess  who  died  for  her  lover.  From  her  I 
learned  something  quite  different. 

Even  as  a child,  I had  visions.  As  I gazed  out 
my  window,  the  houses  of  Montreal  would  vanish, 
melting  into  the  trees;  a glowing  hoop  would  beckon. 
I might  have  stepped  through  it  then,  but  already  I 
had  learned  to  doubt.  Such  visions  were  delusions;  to 
accept  them  meant  losing  reality.  Maman  and  Pere 
Lemaitre  had  shown  me  that.  Soon,  I no  longer  saw 
the  woodlands,  and  felt  no  loss.  I was  content  to 
become  what  the  Lemaitres  wanted  me  to  be. 

When  I was"  eighteen,  Pere  Lemaitre  died. 
Maman  Lemaitre  had  always  been  gentle;  when  her 
brother  Henri  arrived  to  manage  her  affairs,  I saw 
that  her  gentleness  was  only  passivity.  There  would 
no  longer  be  a place  for  me;  Henri  had  made  that 
clear.  She  did  not  fight  him. 


The  Broken  Hoop 


I could  stay  in  that  house  no  longer.  Late  one 
night,  I left,  taking  a few  coins  and  small  pieces  of 
jewelry  Pere  Lemaitre  had  given  me,  and  shed  my 
last  tears  for  the  Lemaitres  and  the  life  I had  known 
during  that  journey. 

I stayed  in  a small  rooming  house  in  Buffalo 
throughout  the  winter  of  1889,  trying  to  decide 
what  to  do.  As  the  snow  swirled  outside,  I heard 
voices  in  the  wind,  and  imagined  that  they  were 
calling  to  me.  But  I clung  to  my  sanity;  illusions 
could  not  help  me. 

In  the  early  spring,  a man  named  Gus  Yeager 
came  to  the  boarding  house  and  took  a room  down 
the  hall.  He  was  in  his  forties  and  had  a thick,  gray- 
streaked  beard.  I suspected  that  he  had  things  to 
hide;  he  was  a yarn-spinner  who  could  talk  for  hours 
and  yet  say  little.  He  took  a liking  to  me  and  finally 
confided  that  he  was  going  west  to  sell  patent 
medicines.  He  needed  a partner.  I was  almost  out  of 
money  by  then  and  welcomecf  the  chance  he  offered 
me. 

I became  Manaho,  the  Indian  princess,  whose 
arcane  arts  had  supposedly  created  the  medicine,  a 
harmless  mixture  of  alcohol  and  herbs.  I wore  a 
costume  Gus  had  purchased  from  an  old  Seneca,  and 
stood  on  the  back  of  our  wagon  while  Gus  sold  his 
bottles:  “Look  at  Princess  Manaho  here,  and  what 
this  miracle  medicine  has  done  for  her— almost  forty, 
but  she  drinks  a bottle  every  day  and  looks  like  a 
girl,  never  been  sick  a day  in  her  life.”  There  were 
enough  foolish  people  who  believed  him  for  us  to 
make  a little  money. 

We  stopped  in  small  towns,  dusty  places  that 
had  narrow  roads  covered  with  horse  manure  and 
wooden  buildings  that  creaked  as  the  wind  whistled 
by.  I remember 'only  browns  and  grays  in  those 
towns;  we  had  left  the  green  trees  and  red  brick  of 
Pennsylvania  and  northern  Ohio  behind  us.  Occa- 
sionally we  stopped  at  a farm;  I remember  men  with 
hatchet  faces,  women  with  stooped  shoulders  and 
hands  as  gnarled  and  twisted  as  the  leafless  limbs  of 
trees,  children  with  eyes  as  empty  and  gray  as  the 
sky. 

Sometimes,  as  we  rode  in  our  wagon,  Gus 
would  take  out  a bottle  of  Princess  Manaho’s  Miracle 
Medicine  and  begin  to  sing  songs  between  swallows. 
He  would  get  drunk  quickly.  He  was  happy  only 
then;  often,  he  was  silent  and  morose.  We  slept  in 
old  rooming  houses  infested  with  insects,  in  barns, 
often  under  trees.  Some  towns  would  welcome  us  as 
a diversion;  we  would  leave  others  hastily,  knowing 
we  were  targets  of  suspicion. 

Occasionally,  as  we  went  farther  west,  I would 
see  other  Indians.  I had  little  to  do  with  them,  but 
would  watch  them  from  a distance,  noting  their 
shabby  clothes  and  weather-worn  faces.  I had  little 

78 


in  common  with  such  people;  I coiald  read  and  speak 
both  French  and  English.  I could  have  been  a lady. 
At  times,  the  townsfolk  would  look  fi"om  one  of  them 
to  me,  as  if  making  a comparison  of  some  sort,  and  I 
would  feel  uncomfortable,  almost  affronted. 

We  came  to  a town  in  Dakota.  But  instead  of 
moving  on,  we  stayed  for  several  days.  Gus  began  to 
change,  and  spent  more  time  in  saloons. 

One  night,  he  came  to  my  room  and  pounded 
on  the  door.  I let  him  in  quickly,  afraid  he  would 
wake  everyone  else  in  the  boarding  house.  He  closed 
the  door,  then  threw  himself  at  me,  pushing  me 
against  the  wall  as  he  fumbled  at  my  nightdress.  I 
was  repelled  by  the  smell  of  sweat  and  whiskey,  his 
harsh  beard  and  warm  breath.  I struggled  with  him 
as  quietly  as  I could,  and  at  last  pushed  him  away. 
Weakened  by  drink  and  the  struggle,  he  collapsed 
across  my  bed;  soon  he  was  snoring.  I sat  with  him 
all  night,  afraid  to  move. 

Gus  said  nothing  next  morning  as  we  prepared 
to  leave.  We  rode  for  most  of  the  day  while  he 
drank;  this  time,  he  did  not  sing.  That  afternoon,  he 
threw  me  off  the  wagon.  By  the  time  I was  able  to 
get  to  my  feet,  Gus  was  riding  off;  dust  billowed 
from  the  wheels.  I ran  after  him,  screaming;  he  did 
not  stop. 

I was  alone  on  the  plain.  I had  no  money,  no 
food  and  water.  I could  walk  back  to  the  town,  but 
what  would  become  of  me  there?  My  mind  was  slip- 
ping; as  the  sky  darkened,  I thought  I saw  a ring 
glow  near  me. 

The  wind  died;  the  world  became  silent.  In  the 
distance,  someone  was  walking  along  the  road 
toward  me.  As  the  figure  drew  nearer,  I saw  that  it 
was  a woman.  Her  face  was  coppery,  and  her  hair 
black;  she  wore  a long  yellow  robe  and  a necklace  of 
small  blue  feathers. 

Approaching,  she  took  my  hand,  but  did  not 
speak.  Somehow  I sensed  that  I was  safe  with  her. 
We  walked  together  for  a while;  the  moon  rose  and 
lighted  our  way.  “What  shall  I do?”  I said  at  last. 
“Where  is  the  nearest  town?  Can  you  help  me?” 

She  did  not  answer,  but  instead  held  my  arm 
more  tightly;  her  eyes  pleaded  v/ith  me.  I said,  “I 
have  no  money,  no  place  to  go.”  She  shook  her  head 
slowly,  then  released  me  and  stepped  back. 

The  sudden  light  almost  blinded  me.  The  sun 
was  high  overhead,  but  the  woman’s  face  was 
shadowed.  She  held  out  her  hand,  beckoning  to  me. 
A ring  shone  around  her,  and  then  she  was  gone. 

I turned,  trembling  with  fear.  I was  standing 
outside  another  drab,  clapboard  town;  my  clothes 
were  covered  with  dust.  I had  iiuagined  it  all  as  I 
walked  through  the  night;  somehow  my  mind  had 
conjured  up  a comforting  vision.  I had  dreamed  as 


The  sim  was 


overhead,  but  the  woman's 


face  was  shadov^^« 
She  held  out  h&t  hand, 
beckoning  to  nw,  . 
A ring  shone  armuul  her, 
and  tlwn  she  was  gone. 


I walked;  that  was  Idle  only  possible  explanation. 
I refused  to  believe  that  I was  mad.  In  that  way,  I 
denied  the  woman. 

I walked  into  the  town  and  saw  a man  riding 
toward  the  stable  in  a wagon.  He  was  dressed  in  a 
long  black  robe— a priest.  I ran  to  him;  he  stopped 
and  waited  for  me  to  speak. 

“Father,”  I cried  out.  “Let  me  speak  to  you.” 

His  kind  brown  eyes  gazed  down  at  me.  He 
was  a short,  stocky  man  whose  face  had  been 
darkened  by  the  sun  and  lined  by  prairie  winds. 
“What  is  it,  my  child?”  He  peered  at  me  more  close- 
ly. “Are  you  from  the  reservation  here?” 

“No.  My  name  is  Catherine  Lemaitre,  I come 
from  the  east.  My  companion  abandoned  me,  and  I 
have  no  money.” 

“I  cannot  help  you,  then.  I have  little  money  to 
give  you.” 

“I  do  not  ask  for  charity.”  I had  sold  enough 
worthless  medicine  with  Gus  to  know  what  to  say  to 
this  priest.  I kept  my  hands  on  his  seat  so  that  he 
could  not  move  withcmt  pushing  me  away.  “I  was 
sent  to  school,  I can  read  and  write  and  do  figures.  I 
want  work,  a place  to  stay.  I am  a Catholic,  Father.” 
I reached  into  my  pocket  and  removed  the  rosary  I 
had  kept,  but  rarely  used.  “Surely  there  is  something 
I can  do.” 

He  was  silent  for  a few  moments.  “Get  in, 
child,”  he  said  at  last,  I climbed  up  next  to  him. 

His  name  was  I'^ather  Morel  and  he  had  been 
sent  by  his  superiors  to  help  the  Indians 
living  in  the  area,  most  of  whom  were  Sioux. 
He  had  a mission  near  the  reservation  and  often 
traveled  to  the  homes  of  the  Indians  to  tell  them 
about  Christ.  He  had  tieen  promised  an  assistant  who 
had  never  arrived.  He  could  offer  me  little,  but  he 
needed  a teacher,  someone  who  could  teach  children 
to  read  and  write. 

I had  arrived  at  Father  Morel’s  mission  in  the 
autumn.  My  duties,  besides  teaching,  were  cooking 
meals  and  keeping  the  small  wooden  house  next  to 
the  chapel  clean.  Father  Morel  taught  catechism,  but 
I was  responsible  for  the  other  subjects.  Winter  ar- 
rived, a harsh,  cold  winter  with  winds  that  bit  at  my 
face.  As  the  drifts  grew  higher,  fewer  of  the  Sioux 


children  came  to  school.  The  ones  who  did  sat  silent- 
ly on  the  benches,  huddling  in  their  heavy  coverings, 
while  I built  a fire  in  the  wood-burner. 

The  children  irritated  me  with  their  passivity, 
their  lack  of  interest.  They  sat,  uncomplaining,  while 
I wrote  words  or  figures  on  my  slate  board  or  read 
to  them  from  one  of  Father  Morel’s  books.  A little 
girl  named  White  Cow  Sees,  baptized  Joan,  was  the 
only  one  who  showed  interest.  She  would  ask  to  hear 
stories  about  the  saints,  and  the  other  children, 
mostly  boys,  would  nod  mutely  in  agreement. 

I was  never  sure  how  much  any  of  them 
understood.  Few  of  them  spoke  much  English, 
although  White  Cow  Sees  and  a little  boy  named 
Whirlwind  Chaser,  baptized  Joseph,  managed  to 
become  fairly  fluent  in  it.  Whirlwind  Chaser  was  par- 
ticularly fond  of  hearing  about  Saint  Sebastian.  At 
last  I discovered  that  he  saw  Saint  Sebastian  as  a 
great  warrior,  shot  with  arrows  by  an  enemy  tribe; 
he  insisted  on  thinking  that  Sebastian  had  returned 
from  the  other  world  to  avenge  himself. 

I lost  most  of  them  in  the  spring  to  the 
warmer  days.  White  Cow  Sees  still  came,  and  a few 
of  the  boys,  but  the  rest  had  vanished.  There  was 
little  food  that  spring  and  the  Indians  seemed  to 
be  waiting  for  something. 

I went  into  town  as  often  as  possible  to  get 
supplies,  and  avoided  the  Indians  on  the  reservation. 
They  were  silent  people,'  never  showing  emotion; 
they  seemed  both  hostile  and  indifferent.  I was  ir- 
ritated by  their  mixture  of  pride  and  despair,  saw 
them  as  unkempt  and  dirty,  and  did  not  understand 
why  they  refused  to  do  anything  that  might  better 
their  lot. 

I began  to  view  the  children  in  the  same  way. 
There  was  always  an  unpleasant  odor  about  them, 
and  their  quiet  refusal  to  learn  was  more  irritating 
to  me  than  pranks  and  childish  foolishness  would 
have  been.  I became  less  patient  with  them,  subject- 
ing them  to  spelling  drills,  to  long  columns  of  addi- 
tion, to  lectures  on  their  ignorance.  When  they 
looked  away  from  me  in  humiliation,  I refused  to 
see. 


I met  Little  Deer  at  the  beginning  of  summer. 
He  had  come  to  see  Father  Morel,  arriving  while  the 
children  and  I were  at  Mass.  He  looked  at  me  with 
suspicion  as  we  left  the  chapel. 

I let  the  children  go  early  that  day,  watching 
as  they  walked  toward  their  homes.  White  Cow  Sees 
trailed  behind  the  hoys,  trying  to  get  their  attention. 

“You.”  I turned  and  saw  the  Indian  who  had 
come  to  see  Father  Morel.  He  was  a tall  man, 
somewhat  paler  than  the  Sioux  I had  seen.  He  wore 
a necklace  of  deer  bones  around  his  neck;  his  hair 
was  in  long,  dark  braids.  His  nose,  instead  of  being 
large  and  prominent,  was  small  and  straight.  “You 

i 

79 


%,  - 

The  Broten  Hoop 


are  the  teacher.” 

“Yes,  I am  Catherine  Lemaitre.”  I said  it 
coldly. 

“Some  call  me  John  Wells,  some  call  me  Little 
Deer.  My  mother’s  cousin  has  come  here,  a boy 
named  Whirlwind  Chaser.” 

“He  stays  away  now.  I have  not  seen  him 
since  winter.” 

“What  can  you  teach  him?” 

“More  than  you  can.” 

“You  teach  him  Wasichu  foolishness,”  he  said. 
“I  have  heard  of  y u and  have  seen  you  in  the  town 
talking  to  white  men.  You  think  you  will  make  them 
forget  who  you  are,  but  you  are  wrong.” 

“You  have  no  right  to  speak  to  me  that  way.” 
I began  to  walk  away,  but  he  followed  me. 

“My  father  was  a Wasichu,  a trader,”  Little 
Deer  went  on.  “My  mother  is  a Minneconjou.  I lived 
with  the  Wasichu,  I learned  their  speech  and  I can 
write  my  name  and  read  some  words.  My  mother 
returned  here  to  her  people  Vhen  I was  small.  You 
wear  the  clothes  of  a Wasichu  woman  and  stay  with 
the  Black  Robe,  but  he  tells  me  you  are  not  his 
woman.” 

“Priests  have  no  women.  And  you  should  tell 
Whirlwind  Chaser  to  return  to  school.  White  men 
rule  here  now.  Learning  their  ways  is  all  that  can 
help  you,” 

“I  have  seen  their  ways.  The  Wasichus  are 
mad.  They  hate  the  earth.  A man  cannot  live  that 
way.” 

I said,  “They  are  stronger  than  you.” 

“You  are  only  a foolish  woman  and  know 
nothing.  You  teach  our  children  to  forget  their 
fathers.  You  think  you  are  a Wasichu,  but  to  them 
you  are  only  a silly  woman  they  have  deceived.” 

“Whv  do  you  come  here  and  speak  to  Father 
Morel?” 

“He  is  foolish,  but  a good  man.  I tell  him  of 
troubles,  of  those  who  wish  to  see  him.  It  is  too  bad 
he  is  not  a braver  man.  He  would  beat  your  madness 
out  of  you.” 

I strode  away  from  Little  Deer,  refusing  to 
look  back,  sure  that  I would  see  only  scorn  on  his 
face.  But  when  I glanced  out  my  window,  I saw  that 
he  was  smiling  as  he  rode  away. 

The  children  stayed  away  from  school  in  the 
autumn.  There  were  more  soldiers  in  town 
and  around  the  reservation  and  I discovered 
that  few  Indians  had  been  seen  at  trading  posts.  I 
refused  to  worry.  A young  corporal  I had  met  in 
town  had  visited  me  a few  times,  telling  me  of  his 
home  in  Minnesota.  Soon,  I prayed,  he  would  speak 
to  me,  and  I could  leave  with  him  and  forget  the 
reservation. 

Then  Little  Deer  returned.  I was  sweeping 


dust  from  the  porch,  and  directed  him  to  the  small 
room  where  Father  Morel  was  reading.  He  shook  his 
head.  “It  is  you  I wish  to  see.” 

“About  what?  Are  you  people  planning  another 
uprising?  You  will  die  for  it— there  are  many  soldiers 
here.” 

“The  Christ  has  returned  to  us.” 

I clutched  my  broom.  “You  are  mad.” 

“Two  of  our  men  have  seen  him.  They  traveled 
west  to  where  the  Fish  Eaters— the  Paiutes— live. 
The  Christ  appeared  to  them  there.  He  is  named 
Wovoka  and  he  is  not  a white  man  as  I have 
thought.  He  was  killed  by  the  Wasichus  on  the  cross 
long  ago,  but  now  he  has  returned  to  save  us.” 

“That  is  blasphemy.” 

“I  hear  it  is  true.  He  will  give  us  back  our 
land,  he  will  raise  all  our  dead  and  return  our  land  to 
us.  The  Wasichus  will  be  swept  away.” 

“No!”  I shouted. 

Little  Deer  was  looking  past  me,  as  if  seeing 
something  else  beyond.  “I  have  heard,”  he  went  on, 
“that  Wovoka  bears  the  scars  of  crucifixion.  He  has 
told  us  we  must  dance  so  that  we  are  not  forgotten 
when  the  resurrection  takes  place  and  the  Wasichus 
disappear.” 

“If  you  believe  that.  Little  Deer,  you  will 
believe  an^hing.” 

“Listen  to  me!”  Frightened,  I stepped  back. 
“A  man  named  Eagle  Wing  Stretches  told  me  he 
saw  his  dead  father  when  he  danced. 'I  was  dancing 
with  him  and  in  my  mind  I saw  the  sacred  tree 
flower,  I saw  the  hoop  joined  once  again.  I under- 
stood again  nature’s  circle  in  which  we  are  the 
earth’s  children,  and  are  nourislied  by  her  until  as 
old  men  we  become  like  children  again  and  return  to 
the  earth.  Yet  I knew  that  all  I saw  was  in  my 
thoughts,  that  my  mind  spoke  to  me,  but  I did  not 
truly  see.  I danced  until  my  feet  were  light,  but  I 
could  not  see.  Eagle  Wing  Stretches  was  at  my  side 
and  he  gave  a great  cry  and  then  fell  to  the  ground 
as  if  dead.  Later,  he  told  me  he  had  seen  his  father 
in  the  other  world,  and  that  his  father  had  said  they 
would  soon  be  together.” 

“But  you  saw  nothing  yourself.” 

“But  I have.  I saw  the  other  world  when  I was 
a boy.” 

I leaned  against  my  broom,  looking  away  from 
his  wild  eyes. 

“I  saw  it  long  ago,  in  the  Moon  of  Falling 
Leaves.  My  friends  were  talking  of  the  Wasichus  and 
how  we  would  drive  them  off  when  we  were  men.  I 
grew  sad  and  climbed  up  a mountain  near  our  camp 
to  be  alone.  In  my  heart,  I believed  that  we  would 
never  drive  off  the  Wasichus,  for  they  were  many 
and  I knew  their  madness  well— I learned  it  from  my 
father  and  his  friends.  It  was  that  mountain  there  I 
climbed.” 


so 


He  pointed  and  I saw  a small  mountain  on  the 


On  a cold  night  in  December,  I stared  at  Little 


; horizon.  “I  was  alone,”  Little  Deer  continued.  “Then  Deer’s  mountain  from  my  window. 

; I heard  the  sound  of  buffalo  hooves  and  I looked  I was  alone.  Father  Morel  was  with  the  In- 

i down  the  mountain,  but  I saw  no  buffalo  there,  dians,  trying  again  to  tell  them  that  their  visions 
I Above  me,  a great  circle  glowed,  brighter  than  the  were  false.  The  ghost  dancing  had  spread  and  the  | 


yellow  metal  called  gold.” 


soldiers  would  act  soon. 


“No,”  I said  softly. 


Horses  whinnied  outside.  Buttoning  my  dress. 


He  looked  at  me  and  read  my  face.  “You  have  I hurried  downstairs,  wondering  who  could  be 


seen  it,  too.” 

“No,”  I said  after  a few  moments. 

“You  have.  I see  that  you  have.  You  can  step 
through  the  circle,  and  yet  you  deny  it.  I looked 
through  the  circle,  and  saw  the  buffalo,  and  warriors 


visiting  at  this  late  houjj.  The  door  swung  open;  • 
three  dark  shapes  stood  on  the  porch.  I opened  my  \ 
mouth  to  scream  and  then  saw  that  one  of  the  men  j 
was  Little  Deer.  i 

“Catherine,  will  you  come  with  me  now?”  I ■ 


I riding  at  their  side.  I wanted  to  step  through  and 
! join  them,  but  fear  held  me  back.  Then  the  vision 
vanished.”  He  leaned  forward  and  clutched  my 
I shoulders.  “I  will  tell  you  what  I think.  There  is 
1 another  world  near  ours,  where  there  are  no 
! Wasichus  and  my  peojjle  are  free.  On  that  mountain, 
j there  is  a pathway  that  leads  to  it.  I will  dance 
there,  and  I will  find  it  again.  I told  my  story  to  a 
medicine  man  named  High  Shirt  and  he  says  that  we 
must  dance  on  the  mountain— he  believes  that  I saw 
Wovoka’s  vision.” 

“You  will  find  nothing.”  But  I remembered  the 
circle,  and  the  robed  wmman,  and  the  woods  that  had 
replaced  Montreal.  I wanted  to  believe  Little  Deer. 

“Come  with  me,  Catherine.  I have  been  sick 
since  I first  saw  you— my  mind  cannot  leave  you 


managed  to  shake  my  head.  “Then  I must  take  you. 

I have  little  time.”  Before  I could  move,  he  grabbed 
me;  one  of  his  companions  bound  my  arms  quickly 
and  threw  a buffalo  robe  over  my  shoulders.  As  I 
struggled.  Little  Deer  dragged  me  outside. 

He  got  on  his  horse  behind  me  and  we  rode 
through  the  night.  Snowflakes  melted  on  my  face. 
“You  will  be  sorry  for  this,”  I said.  “Someone  will 
come  after  me.” 

“It  will  soon  be  snowing  and  there  will  be  no 
tracks.  And  no  one  will  follow  an  Indian  woman  who  5 
decided  to  run  off  and  join  her  people.”  | 

“You  are  not  my  people.”  I pulled  at  my 
bonds.  “Do  you  think  this  will  make  me  care  for  you?  ^ 
I will  only  hate  you  more.” 

“You  will  see  the  other  world,  and  travel  to  it. 


i even  when  I dance.  Your  heart  is  bitter  and  you  bear  There  is  little  time  left— I feel  it.”  j 

the  seeds  of  the  Wasichu  madness  and  I know  that  I We  rode  on  until  we  came  to  a small  group  of 

; should  choose  another,  but  it  is  you  I want.”  houses  which  were-  little  more  than  tree  branches 

j I shrank  from  him,  seeing  myself  in  dirty  hides  slung  together.  We  stopped  and  Little  Deer  mur- 
' inside  a tepee  as  we  pretended  that  our  delusions  mured  a few  words  to  his  companions  before  getting 
were  real.  I would  not  tie  my  life  to  that  of  an  ig-  off  his  horse. 

norant  half-breed.  But  before  I could  speak,  he  had  “High  Shirt  is  here,”  he  said.  “A  little  girl  is 

■ left  the  porch,  muttering,  “I  will  wait,”  and  was  on  sick.  We  will  wait  for  him.”  He  helped  me  off  the 
; his  horse.  horse  ^nd  I swung  at  him  with  my  bound  arms, 

ei 


The  Broken  Hoop 


striking  him  in  the  chest.  He  pulled  out  his  knife  and 
I thought  he  would  kill  me;  instead,  he  cut  the  ropes, 
freeing  my  hands. 

“You  do  not  understand,”  he  said.  “I  wish 
only  to  have  you  with  me  when  we  pass  into  the 
next  world.  I thought  if  I came  for  you,  you  would 
understand.  Sometimes  one  must  show  a woman 
these  things  or  she  will  think  you  are  only  filled  with 
words.”  He  sighed.  “There  is  my  horse.  I will  not 
force  you  to  stay  if  your  heart  holds  only  hate  for 
me.” 

I was  about  to  leave.  But  before  I could  act,  a 
cry  came  from  the  house  nearest  to  us.  Little  Deer 
went  to  the  entrance  and  I followed  him.  An  old  man 
came  out  and  said,  “The  child  is  dead.” 

I looked  inside  the  hovel.  A fire  was  burning 
on  the  dirt  floor  and  I saw  a man  and  woman  hud- 
dled over  a small  body.  The  light  flickered  over  the 
child’s  face.  It  was  White  Cow  Sees. 

The  best  one  was  go^e,  the  cleverest.  She 
might  have  found  her  way  out  of  this  place.  I wept 
bitterly.  I do  not  know  how  long  I stood  there,  weep- 
ing, before  Little  Deer  led  me  away. 

A few  days  after  the  death  of  White  Cow 
Sees,  we  learned  that  the  great  chief  Sitting 
Bull  had  been  shot  by  soldiers.  Little  Deer 
had  placed  me  in  the  keeping  of  one  of  his  compan- 
ions, Rattling  Hawk.  He  lived  with  his  wife.  Red 
Eagle  Woman,  in  a hovel  not  far  from  Little  Deer’s 
mountain.  I spent  most  of  my  days  helping  their 
three  children  search  for  firewood;  I was  still  mourn- 
ing White  Cow  Sees  and  felt  unable  to  act.  Often 
Rattling  Hawk  and  Red  Eagle  Woman  would  dance 
with  others  and  I would  watch  them  whirl  through 
the  snow. 

After  the  death  of  Sitting  Bull,  I was  afraid 
that  there  would  be  an  uprising.  Instead,  the  Indians 
only  danced  more,  as  if  Wovoka’s  promise  would  be 
fulfilled.  Little  Deer  withdrew  to  a sweat  lodge  with 
Rattling  Hawk,  and  I did  not  see  him  for  three  days. 

During  this  time,  I began  to  see  colored  lights 
shine  from  the  mountain,  each  light  a spear  thrown 
at  heaven;  the  air  around  me  would  feel  electric.  But 
when  daylight  came,  the  lights  would  disappear.  I 
had  heard  of  magnetism  while  with  the  Lemaitres. 
Little  Deer  had  only  mistaken  natural  forces  for  a 
sign;  now  he  sat  with  men  in  an  enclosure,  pouring 
water  over  hot  stones.  I promised  myself  that  I 
would  tell  him  I wanted  to  go  back  to  the  mission. 

But  when  Little  Deer  and  High  Shirt  emerged 
from  the  lodge,  they  walked  past  me  without  a word 
and  headed  for  the  mountain.  Little  Deer  was  in  a 
trance,  his  face  gaunt  from  the  days  without  food 
and  his  eyes  already  filled  with  visions.  I went  back 
to  Rattling  Hawk’s  home  to  wait.  I had  to  leave 
soon;  I had  seen  soldiers  from  a distance  the  day 


before,  and  did  not  want  to  die  with  these  people. 

Little  Deer  came  to  me  that  afternoon.  Before 
I could  speak,  he  motioned  for  silence.  His  eyes 
stared  past  me  and  I shivered  in  my  blanket, 
waiting. 

“High  Shirt  said  that  the  spirits  would  be  with 
us  today.  We  climbed  up  and  waited  by  the  place 
where  I saw  the  other  world.  High  Shirt  sang  a 
song  of  the  sacred  tree  and  then  the  tree  was  before 
us  and  we  both  saw  it.” 

“You  thought  you  saw  it,”  I said.  “One  would 
see  anything  after  days  without  food  in  a sweat 
lodge.” 

He  held  up  his  hand,  palnri  toward  me.  “We 
saw  it  inside  the  yellow  circle.  The  circle  grew  larger 
and  we  saw  four  maidens  near  it  dressed  in  fine 
dresses  with  eagle  feathers  on  their  brows,  and  with 
them  four  horses,  one  black,  one  chestnut,  one  white, 
and  one  gray,  and  on  the  horses  four  warriors 
painted  with  yellow  streaks  like  lightning.  Their 
tepees  were  around  them  in  a circle  and  we  saw 
their  people,  fat  with  good  living  and  smiling  as  the 
maidens  danced.  Their  chief  came  forward  and  I saw 
a yellow  circle  painted  on  his  forehead.  He  lifted  his 
arms,  and  then  he  spoke:  Bring  your  people  here,  for 
I see  you  are  lean  and  have  sad  faces.  Bring  them 
here,  for  I see  your  people  traveling  a black  road  of 
misery.  Bring  them  here,  and  they  will  dance  with 
us,  but  it  must  be  soon,  for  our  medicine  men  say 
the  circle  will  soon  be  gone.  He  spoke  with  our 
speech.  Then  the  circle  vanished,  and  High  Shirt 
leaped  up  and  we  saw  that  the  snow  where  the  circle 
had  been  was  melted.  He  ran  to  tell  our  people.  I 
came  to  you.” 

“So  you  will  go  and  dance,”  I said,  “and  wait 
for  the  world  which  will  never  come.  I have  seen—” 
He  took  my  arm,  but  I would  say  no  more.  He 
released  me. 

“It  was  a true  vision,”  he  said  quietly.  “It  was 
not  Wovoka’s  vision,  but  it  was  a true  one.  The 
Black  Robe  told  me  that  God  is  merciful,  but  I 
thought  He  was  merciful  only  to  Wasichus.  Now  I 
think  that  he  has  given  us  a ro£,d  to  a good  world 
and  has  smiled  upon  us  at  last.” 

“I  am  leaving.  Little  Deer.  I will  not  freeze  on 
that  mountain  with  you  or  wait  for  the  soldiers  to 
kill  me.” 

“No,  Catherine— you  will  come.  You  will  see 
this  world  with  me.”  He  led  me  to  Rattling  Hawk’s 
home. 

He  climbed  up  that  eveniiig.  Rattling  Hawk 
and  his  family  came,  and  High  Shirt  brought 
fifteen  people.  The  rest  liad  chosen  to  stay 
behind.  “Your  own  people  do  not  believe  you,”  I said 
scornfully  to  Little  Deer  as  we  climbed.  “See  how 
few  there  are.  The  others  will  dance  down  there  and 


S2 


1 huddled  closer  to  the  fire. 

Little  Deer  pounded 
the  ground,  his  arms  cutting 
the  air  like  scythes. 

He  spun  around  and  became 
an  eagle,  soaring  over  me, 
ready  to  seize  me  with 
his  taloins.  The  stars 
began  to  flaish,  disappearing 
and  then  reappearing. 

The  dancers  seemed  to  flicker. 

wait  for  Wovoka  to  sweep  away  the  white  men. 
They  are  too  lazy  to  climb  up  here.” 

He  glanced  at  me;  there  was  pain  in  his  eyes.  I 
regreted  my  harsh  words.  It  came  to  me  that  out  of 
all  the  men  I had  known,  only  Little  Deer  had  looked 
into  my  mind  and  seen  me  as  I was.  At  that  mo- 
ment, I knew  that  I could  have  been  happy  with  him 
in  a different  world. 

We  climbed  until  High  Shirt  told  us  to  stop. 
Two  of  the  women  built  a fire  and  I sat  near  it  as 
the  others  danced  around  us. 

“Dance  with  us,  Catherine,”  said  Little  Deer.  I 
shook  my  head  and  he  danced  near  me,  feet  pound- 
ing the  ground,  arms  churning  at  his  sides.  I 
wondered  how  long  they  would  dance,  waiting  for, 
the  vision.  Little  Deer  seemed  transformed;  he  was  a 
chief,  leading  his  people.  My  foot  tapped  as  he 
danced.  He  had  seen  me  as  I was,  but  I had  not  truly 
seen  him;  I had  looked  at  him  with  the  eyes  of  the 
white  woman,  and  my  mind  had  clothed  him  in 
white  words— “half-breed,”  “illiterate,”  “insane,” 
“sauvage.  ” 

I fed  some  wood  to  the  fire,  then  looked  up  at 
the  sky.  The  forces  of  magnetism  were  at  work 
again.  A rainbow  of  lights  flickered,  while  the  stars 
shone  on  steadily  in  their  places. 

Suddenly  the  stars  shifted. 

I cried  out.  The  stars  moved  again.  New  con- 
stellations appeared,  a cluster  of  stars  above  me,  a 
long  loop  on  the  horizon.  Little  Deer  danced  to  me 
and  I heard  the  voice  of  High  Shirt  chanting  nearby. 

T huddled  closer  to  the  fire.  Little  Deer  pound- 
ed the  ground,  his  arms  cutting  the  air  like  scythes. 
He  spun  around  and  became  an  eagle,  soaring  over 
me,  ready  to  seize  me  with  his  talons.  The  stars 
began  to  flash,  disappearing  and  then  reappearing. 
One  of  the  women  gave  a cry.  The  dancers  seemed 
to  flicker. 

I leaped  up,  terrified.  Little  Deer  swirled 


around  me,  spinning  faster  and  faster.  Then  he 
disappeared. 

I spun  around.  He  was  on  the  other  side  of  the 
fire,  still  dancing;  then  he  was  at  my  side  again.  I 
tried  to  run  toward  him;  he  was  behind  me.  A group 
of  dancers  circled  me,  winking  on  and  off. 

“Catherine!”  Little  Deer’s  voice  surrounded 
me,  thundering  through  the  night.  His  voice  blended 
with  the  chants  of  High  Shirt  imtil  my  ears  throbbed 
with  pain. 

I fled  from  the  circle  of  dancers  and  fell  across 
a snow-covered  rock.  “Catherine!”  the  voice  cried 
again.  The  dark  shapes  dancing  around  the  fire  grew 
dimmer.  A wind  swept  past  me,  and  the  dancers 
vanished. 

I stood  up  quickly.  And  then  I saw  the  vision. 

A golden  circle  glowed  in  front  of  me;  I saw 
green  grass  and  a circle  of  tepees.  Children  danced 
around  a fire.  Then  I saw  High  Shirt  and  the  others, 
dancing  slowly  with  another  group  of  Indians,  weav- 
ing a pattern  around  a small  tree.  The  circle  grew 
larger;  Little  Deer  stood  inside  it,  holding  his  arms 
out  to  me. 

I had  only  to  step  through  the  circle  to  be  with 
him.  My  feet  carried  me  forward;  I held  out  my  hand 
and  whispered  his  name. 

Then  I hesitated.  My  mind  chattered  to  me— I 
was  sharing  a delusion.  The  dancers  would  dance  un- 
til they  dropped,  and  then  ^ould  freeze  on  the  moun- 
tain, too  ejdiausted  to  climb  down.  Their  desperation 
had  made  them  mad.  If  I stepped  inside  the  circle,  I 
would  be  lost  to  the  irrationality  that  had  always 
been  dormant  inside  me.  I had  to  save  myself. 

The  circle  wavered  and  dimmed.  I saw  the 
other  world  as  if  through  water,  and  the  circle 
vanished.  I cried  out  in  triumph;  my  reason  had  won. 
But  as  I looked  around  at  the  melted  snow,  I saw 
that  I was  alone. 

I waited  on  the  mountain  until  it  grew  too  cold 
for  me  there,  then  climbed  down  to  Rattling  Hawk’s 
empty  home  before  going  back  up  the  mountain  next 
day.  I do  not  know  for  how  many  days  I did  this.  At 
last  I realized  that  the  yellow  circle  I had  seen  would 
not  reappear.  In  my  sorrow,  I felt  that  part  of  me 
had  vanished  with  the  circle,  and  imagined  that  my 
soul  had  joined  Little  Deer.  I never  saw  the  glowing 
hoop  again. 

I rode  back  to  the  mission  a few  days  after 
Christmas  through  a blizzard,  uncaring  about 
whether  I lived  or  died.  There,  Father  Morel  told  me 
that  the  soldiers  had  acted  at  last,  killing  a band  of 
dancing  Indians  near  Wounded  Knee,  and  I knew 
that  the  dancing  and  any  hope  these  people  had  were 
over. 

I was  back  in  the  white  man’s  world,  a pris- 
oner of  the  world  to  come.  10 


© 1981  by  Bruce  J.  Balfour 


Some  Days  Are  Like  That 


by  Bruee  J.  Balfour 


BEING  THE  LAST  MAN  ON  EARTH  WASN'T  ALL  FUN  AND  GAMES! 


The  city  glowed  with  a soft  golden  light  in  the 
sunset.  As  daylight  receded  and  the  silent 
streets  and  buildings  began  to  cool,  auto- 
matic lights  flicked  on  to  push  back  the  darkness. 

No  one  moved  in  the  streets.  Newspapers 
fluttered  along  the  pavement  like  capering  ghosts, 
stopping  here  and  there  to  mingle  with  others,  then 
moving  on.  The  city  was  dead.  Its  buildings  were 
empty.  Only  mindless  lights  and  the  hum  of  power 
lines  remained. 

The  tallest  building  in  the  city  rose  to  several 
hundred  stories.-Atop  the  building  stood  a man.  He 
was  a tall  man,  of  slim  build,  whose  dark  eyes 
gazed  down  upon  the  city  with  infinite  sadness.  A 
pair  of  high-powered  binoculars  hung  limply  from 
his  right  hand. 

His  name  was  Benjamin  Roth.  He  was  a 
systems  analyst  who  had  just  returned  from  a two- 
week  vacation  in  the  desert.  At  first  he  had  been 
pleased  about  the  extraordinary  lack  of  traffic  on 
his  return  trip,  but  it  quickly  became  obvious  when 
he  reentered  the  city  that  something  was  wrong. 
There  was  no  life  of  any  kind. 

He  had  searched.  First  by  car,  then  in  a small 
airplane.  It  was  as  if  everyone  had  vanished  in  the 
midst  of  their  daily  activities.  Water  was  left  run- 
ning, houses  and  stores  were  left  open,  cars  were 
stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  street.  After  three 
days  he  had  left  the  city  and  flown  to  others,  only 
to  find  that  the  same  thing  had  happened  there. 

His  search  took  more  than  a year,  during 
which  time  he  visited  most  of  the  world.  Supplies 

64 


had  been  no  problem.  He’d  found  food  everywhere. 
In  despair  he  returned  to  his  home,  vainly  attempt- 
ing to  figure  out  what  had  happened.  But  there  was 
no  clue.  He  didn’t  want  to  admit  it,  but  it  was  clear 
that  he  was  the  last  man  on  earth.  Roth  chuckled 
softly.  It  was  like  an  old  movie,  but  where  were  the 
cameras? 

After  a day  of  confused  wandering  through 
the  city  streets,  he  found  himself  on  top  of  the 
building  holding  a pair  of  binoculars.  Having  forgot- 
ten his  fear  of  heights,  he  tossed  the  binoculars 
over  the  railing  and  watched  tliem  fall  until  they 
vanished  from  his  view  in  the  creeping  darkness. 

He  listened.  There  were  no  sounds.  No  cars 
or  human  noises.  Only  his  heart  beating.  He  sat 
back,  reached  for  a cigarette,  then  thought  better 
of  it.  The  light  was  fading  fast.  Time  was  running 
out  and  there  was  something  to  be  done.  He  placed 
his  hands  on  the  railing,  sighed,  and  came  to  a deci- 
sion. He  couldn’t  live  in  a world  without  people.  It 
was  time  to  go.  He  jumped. 

It  was  an  interesting  feeling,  on  the  way 
down.  The  lit  windows  in  the  building  shot  past 
with  increasing  speed,  and  he  v'as  buffeted  by  the 
wind.  He  was  completely  alert  a,nd  strangely  calm. 
His  senses  were  operating  at  full  capacity  in  the 
final  moments  of  his  life.  In  fact,  his  hearing  was 
sharp  enough  to  hear  a telephone  ringing  through 
an  open  tenth-floor  window  . . . 

Well,  he  thought,  some  days  are  like  that. 

The  friendly  pavement  rushed  up  to  meet  him 
and  darkness  closed  in.  iS 


Illustration  by  Randy  Jones 


115.  THE  NEW  EXHIBIT 

Written  by  Jerry  Sohl 
Plotted  by  Charles  Beauniont  and 
Jerry  Sohl 

Producer:  Bert  Granet 

Director;  John  Brahm 

Dir.  of  Photography:  George  T.  Clemens 

Music:  Stock 

Cast 

Martin  L.  Senescu:  Martin  Balsam 
Mr.  Ferguson:  Will  Kulma 
Emma  Senescu:  Maggie  Mahoney 
Dave:  William  Mims 
Henri  Desire  Landru:  Milton  Parsons 
Jack  the  Ripper:  David  Bond 
Albert  W.  Hicks;  Bob  Mitchell 
Burke:  Robert  L.  McCord 
With  Billy  Beck,  Phil  Chambers, 

Lennie  Breman,  Marcel  tlillaire,  Ed 
Barth,  and  Craig  Curtis 

"Martin  Lombard  Senescu,  a gentle 
man,  the  dedicated  curator  of 
Murderers’  Row  in  Ferguson’s  Wax 
Museum.  He  ponders  the  reasons  why 
ordinary  men  are  driven  to  commit 
mass.murder.  What  Mr.  Senescu  does 
not  know  is  that  the  groundwork  has 
already  been  laid  for  his  cum  special 
kind  of  madness  and  torment— found 
only  in  the  Twilight  Zone.  ’’ 


Mr.  Ferguson  tells  Martin  that,  as  the 
result  of  poor  attendance,  he  has  been 
forced  to  sell  the  wax  museum.  Martin 
has  been  his  employee  for  thirty  years, 
and  five  of  the  figures  have  come  to 
have  special  meaning  for  him:  Jack 
the  Ripper,  Burke  and  Hare,  Albert 
W.  Hicks,  and  Henri  Desire  Landru— 
all  notorious  murderers.  Martin  pleads 
to  be  allowed  to  house  the  figures  in 
his  basement;  perhaps  he  will  be  able 
to  get  backers  and  open  his  own  wax 
museum.  Reluctantly,  Ferguson 
agrees— to  the  dismay  of  Martin’s 
vdfe,  Emma.  As  the  weeks  pass 
Martin’s  obsession  with  the  figures 
continues  to  grow;  he  spends  all  his 
time  grooming  and  attending  to 
them.  Desperate,  Emma  asks  her 
brother  Dave  for  advice.  He  suggests 
sabotage:  disconnect  the  air 
conditioner  and  soon  the  wax  figures 
won’t  be  a problem.  Late  that  night, 
Emma  sneaks  down  to  the  basement 
to  pull  the  plug.  But  suddenly.  Jack 
the  Ripper  comes  to  life  and  murders 
her.  Risking  that  the  police  would 
never  believe  that  a wax  dummy 
killed  his  wife,  Martin  buries  Emma 
in  the  basement  and  covers  the 
grave  with  cement.  But  Dave  doesn’t 
swallow  Martin’s  stoiy  that  Emma’s 
gone  to  visit  his  sister,  particularly 
when  he  hears  the  air  conditioner 
going  full  blast  downstairs!  Dave 
sneaks  into  the  basement,  and  is 


promptly  dispatched  by  an  ax 
wielded  by  Albert  W.  Hicks. 
Sometime  later,  Mr.  Ferguson 
arrives  vrith  the  news  that  he  intends 
to  sell  th#  five  figures.  Although 
Martin  protests,  Ferguson  remains 
adamant.  When  Martin  goes  upstairs 
to  prepare  some  tea,  Landru 
strangles  Ferguson  with  a garrote. 
Returning,  Martin  is  appall^  to  find 
Ferguson  dead.  Enraged,  he  tells  the 
figures  that  he’s  going  to  destroy 
them.  They  come  alive  and  draw 
near  him,  speaking  to  Martin  in  his 
mind,  telling  him  that  it  is  he,  not 
they,  who  committed  the  murders. 
Later,  at  the  Marchand  Museum  in 
Brussels,  a guide  leads  a group  of 
the  curious  through  Murderers’  Row, 
luridly  relating  the  terrible  deeds  of 
each  of  the  figures.  Finally,  he  comes 
to  the  row’s  newest  addition,  a man 
who  murdered  his  wife,  brother-in- 
law,  and  employer.  It  is  the  figure  of 
Martin  Lombard  Senescu! 

"The  new  exhibit  became  very 
popular- at  Marchand’s,  but  of  all  the 
figures,  none  was  ever  regarded  with 
mdre  dread  than  that  of  Martin 
Lombard  Senescu.  It  was  something 
about  the  eyes,  people  said.  It’s  the 
look  that  one  often  gets  after  taking  a 
quick  walk  through  the  Twilight 
Zone.’’ 


TV’c  *7 


UUNIINUING?  MAkC  SCO  I I ZICREE  S 
SHOW-BY-SHOW  GUIDE  TO  THE  ENTIRE 
TWILIGHT  ZONE  TELEVISION  SERIES, 
COMPLETE  WITH  ROD  SERLING'S  OPENING 
AND  CLOSING  NARRATIONS 


‘‘You  unlock  this  door  with  the  key  of  imagination. 
Beyond  it  is  another  dimension— a dimension  of 
sound,  a dimension  of  sight,  a dimension  of  mind. 
You’re  moving  into  a land  of  both  shadow  and 
substance,  of  things  and  ideas.  You’ve  just  crossed 
over  into  the  Twilight  Zone.  ” 


116.  OF  LATE  I THINK  OF 
CLIFFORDVILLE 

Written  by  Rod  Serling 

Based  on  the  short  story  “Blind 

Alley”  by  Malcolm  Jameson 

Producer:  Bert  Granet 

Director:  David  Lowell  Rich 

Dir.  of  Photography:  Robert  W.  Pittack 

Music:  Stock 

Cast 

Bill  Feathersmith:  Albert  Salmi 
Miss  Devlin:  Julie  Newmar 
Diedrich:  John  Anderson 
Hecate:  Wright  King 
Gibbons:  Guy  Raymond 
Joanna:  Christine  Burke 
Clark:  John  Harmon 
Cronk:  Hugh  Sanders 

“Witness  a murder.  The  killer  is  Mr. 
William  Feathersmith,  a robber  baron 
whose  body  composition  is  made  vn  of 
a refrigeration  plant  covered  by  thick 
skin.  In  a moment,  Mr.  Feath^smith 
wiU  proceed  on  his  daily  course  of 
conquest  and  calumny  with  yet  another 
business  dealing.  But  this  one  wiU  be 
one  of  those  bizarre  transactions  that 
take  place  in  an  odd  marketplaee 
i known  as  the  Twilight  Zone.  ” 

\ The  killing  is  a financial  one:  Mr. 

: Diedrich,  who  has  known  and  disliked 
■ Feathersmith  since  they  were  both 
young  men  in  Clifford\^e,  Indiana, 
has  taken  out  a $3  million  loan  to  aid 
I his  tool  and  die  company. 

Feathersmith  has  bought  up  the  loan, 

: and  calls  the  note  due— Diedrich  is 
I forced  to  sell  him  the  company  in 
! order  to  avoid  bankruptcy.  Late  that 
night,  Feathersmith  is  drinking  alone 
in  his  office  when  Mr.  Hecate,  a 
custodian  for  forty  years  who  is  also 
from  Cliffordville,  enters  the  room. 
Feathersmith  tells  him  that,  having 


reached  the  top,  he’s  now  bored.  He’d 
like  to  be  able  to  go  back  to  the 
Cliffordville  of  his  past  and  start  all 
over  again,  re-experience  the  thrill  of 
acquisition.  A few  minutes  later, 
Feathersmith  is  surprised  when  the 
elevator  deposits  him  not  on  the  lobby, 
but  on  the  floor  of  the  Devlin  Travel 
Agency.  Miss  Devlin,  an  attractive 
young  lady  with  two  horns  sprouting 
from  her  head,  offers  him  a unique 
service— she’ll  return  him  to  the 
Cliffordville  of  1910.  He’ll  look  young 
and  his  memory  of  the  present  will  be 
unimpaired.  The  price  is  not  his  soul— 
they  already  have  that— but  his 
enormous  fortune,  all  but  $1400. 
Feathersmith  agrees,  and  shortly 
finds  himself  in  Cliffordville.  He 
expects  nothing  but  success,  but  he 
is  done  in  by  his  own  faulty  memory. 
He  courts  the  daughter  of  Gibbons, 
the  banker,  and  finds  that  she  is  not 
lovely— as  he  had  remembered— but 
unspeakably  homely.  He  uses  his 
entire  $1400  to  buy  oil-rich  land  from 
Gibbons  and  Diedrich,  not  realizing 
that  it  is  inaccessible  to  the  drills  of 
1910.  Finally,  he  tries  to  convince 
machinists  to  build  a variety  of 
modern-day  inventions,  but  is  unable 
to  recall  their  workings  specifically 
enough  to  draw  blueprints.  All  this 
serves  only  to  utterly  exhaust  him. 
With  a shock,  he  resizes  he’s  been 
tricked:  He  looks  thirty,  but 


internally  he’s  still  seventy-five!  Miss 
Devlin  appears.  Feathersmith  begs 
her  to  return  him  to  1963.  She  tells 
him  that  a speckil  train  is  leaving 
immediately  for  the  present  and  that 
Feathersmith  is  welcome  to 
board— for  forty  dollars.  Just  then, 

Mr.  Hecate  happens  by;  Feathersmith  i 
sells  him  the  deed  to  the  oil-rich  land  '■ 
for  forty  dollars.  Then  he  returns  to  \ 
the  present,  but  it  is  a present  ' 

substantially  altered  by  i 

Feathersmith’s  dealings  in  the  past. 
Feathersmith  is  now  the  janitor  of  | 

forty  years— and  Hecate  the  wealthy  j 
financier! 

“Mr.  William  J.  Feathersmith, 
tycoon,  who  tried,  the  track  one  more  j 
time  and  found  it  muddier  than  he  \ 
remembered— proving  with  at  least  a 
degree  of  conclusiveness  that  nice 
guys  don’t  always  finish  last,  and 
some  people  should  quit  when  they’re 
ahead.  Tonight’s  tale  of  iron  men  and 
irony,  delivered  F.O.B.  from  the 
Twilight  Zone.  ” 


86 


117.  THE  INCREDIBLE  WORLD  OF 
HORACE  FORD 

Written  by  Reginald  Rose 
j Producer:  Herbert  Hirschman 
; Director:  Abner  Biberman 
Dir.  of  Photography:  George  T.  Clemens 
Music:  Stock 
Cast 

Horace  Ford:  Pat  Hingle 
Laura  Ford:  Nan  Martin 
Mrs.  Ford:  Ruth  White 
Leonard  O’Brien:  Phillip  Pine 
Betty  O’Brien:  Mary  Carver 
Mr.  Judson:  Vaughn  Taylor 
Horace  (child):  Jim  E.  "Titus 
I Hermy  Brandt:  Jerry  Davis 

“Afr.  Horace  Ford,  who  has  a 
preoccupaiion  with  another  time— a 
time  of  childhood,  a time  of  growing 
up,  a time  of  street  games:  stickbaU 
and  hide-and-seek.  He  has  a 
reluctance  to  go  check  out  a mirror 
and  see  the  nature  of  his  image: 
jmoof  positive  that  the  time  he  dwells 
in  has  already  passed  him  by.  But  in 
a moment  or  two  he’ll  discover  that 
mechanical  toys  and  memories  and 
daydreaming  and  wishful  thinking 
and  all  manner  of  odd  and  special 
events  can  lead  one  into  a special 
province,  uncharted  and  unmapped,  a 
country  of  both  shadow  and  substance 
known  as  ...  the  Twilight  Zone. ” 

Toy  designer  Horace  Ford, 
emotionally  little  more  than  an 
oversized  child,  lives  with  his  wife 
! Laura  and  his  mother.  He  spends 
* most  of  his  time  reminiscing  about 
! what  he  recalls  as  an  idyllic 
I childhood  that  was  all  play  and  no 
: responsibility.  Several  evcinings 
j before  his  thirty-eighth  birth^y— for 
! which  Laura  has  plaimed  a surprise 
! party— Horace  pays  a nostalgic  visit 
! to  his  old  neighborhood  on  fcmdolph 
i Street.  To  his  amazemeni;,  it  is 
; exactly  as  he  remembered  it,  down 
■ to  the  clothes  the  people  wear  and 
; the  pushcart  man  selling  hot  dogs  for 
j three  cents  apiece.  Suddenly,  a group 
! of  young  boys  rush  past.  One  of 
: them  bumps  into  Horace,  knocking 
: his  pocket  watch  out  of  Ids  hands. 

The  boy  turns  and  grins.  Horace  is 
astonished  to  see  it  is  Hermy 
Brandt— who  was  a cdiild  when  he 
was  a child!  Horace  gives  chase,  but 
loses  him.  Returning  home,  he  tries 
to  tell  Laura  and  his  mother  of  the 


experience,  but  finds  them  extremely 
dubious.  Then  the  doorbell  rings. 
Laura  answers  it— and  finds  herself 
face-to-face  with  Hermy  Brandt,  who 
hands  her  Horace’s  watch  and  then 
runs  away.  Drawn  by  the  mystery, 
Horace  returns  to  Randolph  Street 
the  next  night  and  finds  the 
sequence  of  events  identical.  Only 
this  time,  he  manages  to  catch  up 
with  the  boys  and  overhears  them 
angrily  discussing  some  unnamed 
person  who  has  slighted  them  by  not 
inviting  them  to  his  birthday  party. 
Horace  returns  to  his  apartment, 
certain  he  has  witnessed  a recurring 
pattern— one  in  which  he  is 
inexplicably  a part.  This  conviction  is 
only  strengthened  when,  as  before, 
Hermy  Brandt  returns  his  watch, 
then  is  gone.  Obsessed  by  these 
events,  Horace  neglects  his  work. 
Sensing  he  is  not  well,  Mr.  Judson, 
his  boss,  orders  him  to  take  a leave 
of  absence  and  see  a psychiatrist. 
Furious,  Horace  refuses,  and  Judson 
is  forced  to  fire  him.  When  Horace 
tells  his  mother  of  this,  she  breaks 
down  into  hysterical  tears  of  self- 
pity.  Horace  is  filled  with  envy  of 
the  kids  he’s  seen  on  Randolph 
Street:  they  don’t  have  to  support  a 
wife  and  mother— all  they  have  to  do 
is  have  fun!  He  storms  out  of  the 
apartment  and  races  back  to 
Randolph  Street.  There  the  events 
repeat  themselves,  but  this  time,  the 
boys’  conversation  continues  and  it 
becomes  clear  that  the  person  who 


has  offended  them  is  Horace!  He 
pleads  with  them  to  forgive  him,  but 
is  ignored.  Suddenly,  he  is  a child 
again.  Viciously,  they  jump  on  him 
and  beat  him  up.  Laura  and  the  party 
guests  wait  for  Horace’s  return. 

When  the  doorbell  rings,  the  door  is 
thrown  open  and  they  all  yell 
“Surpris^”— But  the  surprise  is  on 
them.  It’s  not  Horace,  it’s  Hermy 
Brandt,  and  this  time  the  object  he 
holds  out  is  a Mickey  Mouse  watch! 
Horrified,  Laura  rushes  to  Randolph 
Street.  It  is  quiet,  empty  of  people, 
the  stands  covered  over  with 
blankets.  Horace,  still  a little  boy, 
lies  unconscious  on  the  ground, 
bleeding  and  bruised.  Sobbing,  Laura 
turns  away  from  him.  When  she 
turns  back,  Horace  is  a man  again. 

He  revives,  and  tells  her  that  what 
he  found  on  Randolph  Street  put  the  I 
lie  to  what  he  had  remembered;  in  j 
reality,  his  childhood  was  a terrible 
time.  Now,  finally,  he  is  able  to  put 
it  behind  him.  There’s  a party 
waiting  for  him  at  home.  He  and 
Laura  leave  Randolph  Street— not 
noticing  that  high  above  them,  atop  | 
a streetlamp,  sits  a grinning  Hermy 
Brandt.  | 

"Exit  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Horace  Ford, 
who  have  lived  through  a bizarre 
moment  not  to  be  calibrated  on 
normal  clocks  or  watches.  Time  has 
passed,  to  be  sure,  but  it’s  the  special 
time  in  the  special  place  known 
as— the  Twilight  Zone.  ’’  IS 


i ^"1  Ihe  fifth  season  of  Twilight 
I Zom  boasted  more  episodes 
I written  by  Richanl  Matheson 
I than  any  previous  year,  jmd  what  a 
' varied  and  entertaining  lot  they 
j were:  “Steel,”  in  which  Lee  Marvin 
must  find  the  courage  to  do  battle 
with  a robot  boxer;  “Spur  of  the 
Moment,”  in  which  Diana  Hyland 
struggles  to  return  to  the  past  and 
stop  herself  from  making  a ruinous 
j marital  mistake;  “Night  Call,”  in 
I which  Gladys  Cooper  reaaves  phone 
- calls  from  beyond  the  grave;  and,  of 
: course,  the  unforgettable  “Nightmare 
: at  20,000  Feet,”  in  which  William 
i Shatner  comes  face  to  face  with  a 
I gremlin  attempting  to  sal)otage  the 
, plane  on  which  he’s  flying.  But  there 
I was  one  Matheson  script  that  was 
! bought  and  never  produced.  Entitled 
I “The  Doll,”  it  tells  the  gentle  story 
: of  a lonely,  middle-aged  bachelor  who 
i becomes  infatuated  With  a beautiful, 
j handmade  doU— a doll  that  seems 
I determined  to  do  more  than  just  sit 
■ on  a shelf. 

Matheson  recalls  the  genesis  of 
; the  stoiy;  “We  bought  a doll  for  one 
j of  our  daughters,  and  the  doll’s  face 
: was  so  mature  and  so  lovely  that  the 
i idea  evolved:  What  if  a man  who 
: was  not  married  bought  a doU  like 
I that  for  his  niece,  and  the  niece 
didn’t  care  for  it  and  he  had  to  take 
it  back— only  he  didn’t  wa,nt  to  take 
it  back,  because  the  face  just  looked 
. fascinating.”  Regarding  tlie  chsiracter 
j of  the  bachelor,  Matheson  reveals,  “I 
just  imagined  what  I would  be  like  if 
I reached  that  ag®  and  had  never 
^tten  married,  stayed  in  New  York 
I instead  of  coming  out  to  California.” 
i Bert  Granet,  then  producer  of 
TwUight  Zone,  commissioned 
Matheson  to  vmte  the  script,  as  he 
had  the  other  four.  But  before 


production  could  begin  on  “The 
Doll,”  Granet  left  TwUight  Zone  to 
take  over  production  of  CBS’s  The 
I Great  Adventure.  His  replacement 
was  William  Froug.  Apparently, 
Froug  read  “The  Doll”  and  failed  to 
be  impressed.  At  the  same  time, 
Charles  Beaumont  had  an  idea  for 
another  doll  story,  in  which  a little 
girl’s  talking  doll  threatens  and 
ultimately  murders  the  child’s 


Martin  Balsam 


Mary  La  Roche 


neurotic  stepfather.  Obviously,  two 
fantasies  dealing  with  dolls  could  not 
be  aired  in  the  same  season.  Froug 
opted  for  the  Beaumont  story,  which 
was  produced  as  “Living  Doll,” 
starring  Telly  Savalas  as  the 
stepfather. 

“I  liked  the  script  very  much 
when  I wrote  it,  and  I was 
disappointed  that  they  didn’t  make 
it,”  Matheson  says  of  “’The  Doll.” 

] Although  it  was  never  filmed, 
i Matheson  admits  he  did  have  certain 
j actors  in  mind.  “At  the  time,  I 
I visualized  Martin  Balsam  playing  the 
I man.  The'image  of  the  woman  was 
j Mary  La  Roche,  who  played  Keenan 
j Wynn’s  mistress  in  my  Twilight  Zme 
\ episode  ‘A  World  of  His  Own.’  ” 

! Ironically,  the  little  girl’s  mother  in 
“Living  Doll”  was  played  by  Mary 
La  Roche. 

And  what  of  the  fate  of  ‘"The 
1 Doll”— could  it  possibly  be  aired  on 
commercial  television  today? 

Matheson  thinks  not  “It  was 
indigenous  to  that  time  and  to  The 
TrvUight  Zone,  ” he  explains.  “Oh,  it’s 
conceivable  that  somebody  might  do 
I it  on  PBS  or  something,  but  it’s  not 
: hard-edged  enough  for  today’s 
market.  The  limited  mass  success  of 
my  film  Somewhere  in  Time  is  a 
demonstration  of  that.  There  are  still 
people  who  like  this  sort  of  thing, 
but  in  the  mass  it’s  not  something 
that  goes  anymore,  which  is  too 
bad.” 

Too  bad,  indeed.  But  if  “The 
Doll”  is  never  to  be  viewed  on  the 
phdsphor-dot  screen,  at  least— finally 
—it  can  be  read.  An  uncompleted 
and  forgotten  roadway  for  twenty 
years,  toe  path  has  now  been 
cleared,  and  we  can  all  journey  along 
it  into  a most  delightful  comer  of 
toe  TVilight  Zone. 


The  Story  Behind 

Richard 
Matheson 's 

The  Doll 


• IN  THE  FOLLOWING  PAGES, 

; WE  PRESENT  A NEVER- BEFORE-SEEN 
I 'TWILIGHT  ZONE'  TELEPLAY 
I FOR  A SHOW  THAT 
: MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN. 

; BUT  FIRST,  A FEW  WORDS 
: ABOUT  ITS  CURIOUS  HISTORY  , . . 


i by  Marc  Scott  Zicree 


* 


91 


The  DoU 

by  Richard  Matheson 

THE  TWILIGHT  ZONE'  EPISODE  YOU  NEVER  SAW: 

A BIHERSWEET  SAGA  OF  LONELINESS  AND  LOVE 
IN  WHICH  FATE  TAKES  THE  FORM  OF  A DOLLMAKER. 


FADE  ON: 

1.  E3XT.  DOLL  SHOP 
CLOSE  ON  SIGN  DAY 

Reading:  Llebemacher.  CAMERA 
DOWNPANS  to  reveal  the 
window  filled  with  dolls. 

2.  INT.  DOLL  SHOP 
ANGLE  THROUGH 
WINDOW 

The  shop,  dlm-llt,  shadowy  and 
still  but  for  the  voice  of  Mr. 
Llebemacher  quietly  SINGING 
an  old  German  folk  song- 
llkely  one  of  love  and  virtue. 
Outside,  JOHN  WALTERS 
APPEARS,  looks  at  the  contents 
92 


of  the  window  for  several' 
moments,  then  turns  for  the 
door;  CAMERA  PANS  to  follow 
his  movement.  The  bell  above 
the  door  tinkles  as  he  enters. 

3.  CLOSE  ON  LLEBEMACHER 

Glancing  up  from  behind  his 
work  bench  where  he  Is 
constructing  a doll.  He  Is  quite 
old,  his  benign  appearance 
belying  his  shrewdness.  He 
peers  across  the  tops  of  his 
square-cut  spectacles,  smiling 
as  he  sees  who  It  Is. 

LIEBEMACHER 

Ah;  Mr.  Walters. 

CAMERA  DRAWS  AROUND  to 
include  John,  a pleasantly 


ordinary  man  in  his  early 
forties.  He  returns  the  old 
man’s  smile. 

JOHN 

Mr.  Llebemacher.  How  are 
you  today? 

LIEBEMACHER 

(nodding) 

Oh  . . . gut,  gut.  And 
yourself? 

JOHN 

Fine,  thank  you. 

LIEBEMACHER 

I have  not  seen  you  for 
some  weeks  now.  You  have 
been  111? 

JOHN 


iltustratlons  by  Perry  A.  Realo 


No,  no,  Just  . . . busy. 
LIEBEMACHER 

Ah.  Is  good  to  be  busy, 
(pause;  gesturing) 

Well  . . . make  yourself  to 
home. 

John  chuckles  and  shakes  his 
head. 

JOHN 

Mr.  Llebemacher.  I think 
you’re  the  last  exponent  of 
the  soft  sell  left  m America. 

LIEBEMACHER 
Soft  sell? 

JOHN 

It  means  you  don’t  try  to 
make  people  buy. 
LIEBEMACHER 

I should  make  the  people 
buy?  Neln.  What  they  need, 
they  will  find. 

JOHN 

(smiles) 

A lovely  concept. 

(smile  fading) 

I wish  I could  believe  it. 
LIEBEMACHER 

Believe  It;  It  Is  true. 

(beat) 

And  if  It  Is  not  Immediately 
true- 
(wlnks) 

-believe  It  anyway  and  It 
will  come  true.  Ja? 

JOHN 

(appreciatively) 

I think  I come  In  here  more 
to  talk  to  you  than  to  look 
at  your  dolls,  Mr. 
Llebemacher. 

LIEBEMACHER 

(shrugs) 

That  Is  all  right,  too.  To  talk 
Is,  also,  good. 

JOHN 

(musingly) 

Yes;  It  Is. 

(brightening) 

But  - today  I finally  make 
the  .transition  from 
conversing  browser  to  paying 
customer. 

LIEBEMACHER 


It  Is  true?  You  wish  to  buy 
a doll? 

JOHN 

(smiling) 

I do.  - 

LIEBEMACHER 

(askance) 

Not  for  yourself. 

JOHN 
(laughing)  , 

No.  For  my  niece.  It’s  her 
birthday  today. 

LIEBEMACHER 

Ah;  your  sister’s  daughter  - I 
remember. 

(thinks  a moment) 

Doris,  yes? 

JOHN 

Right. 

LIEBEMACHER 

And  she  Is  - how  old? 

JOHN 

Uh  . . . eleven  - I think, 
(ruefully) 

Fine  uncle,  I am.  I don’t 
even  know. 

LIEBEMACHER 

Well  ...  these  are  the  little 
remembrances  one  only 
cultivates  in  marriage  and  in 
parenthood.  Ja? 

JOHN 

(nods  sadly) 

(beat) 

Little  remembrances  I doubt 
I’ll  ever  cultivate. 

LIEBEMACHER 
You  never  know. 

JOHN 
I know. 

(cheering) 

Well;  at  any  rate  - 
(looking  around) 

- what  would  you  suggest? 
LIEBEMACHER 

Oh  . . . no  suggestions.  Look 
around.  You  will  find  the 
right  one. 

John  looks  at  the  old  man  for 
several  moments,  then  nods 
and  smiles. 

JOHN 

All  right.  I’ll  take  a look. 


LIEBEMACHER 

Gut. 

He  goes  back  to  his  work  and 
John  turns.  CAMERA  DRAWS 
AHEAD  of  him  as  he  moves 
along  the  wall,  looking  at  the 
dolls,  a gentle  smile  on  his 
face. 

4.  PAN  SHOT  DOLLS 

Of  every  possible  variety; 
beautifully  made  and  dressed. 

5.  MOVING  SHOT  ..  JOHN 
AND  LIEBEMACHER 

Llebemacher  sitting  In 
background  at  his  bench; 

John  looking  at  the  dolls 
as  he  walks. 

JOHN 

(across  his  shoulder) 

You  certainly  make 
marvelous  dolls,  Mr. 
Llebemacher. 

LIEBEMACHER 

Danke. 

JOHN 

(wryly) 

Though  I can’t  Imagine  how 
you  m^e  a living,  you’re  so 
easygoing. 

LIEBEMACHER 

Oh  . . . there  are  different 
kinds  of  compensation. 

JOHN 

Yes.  Of  course  there  are. 
(beat) 

To  be  fulfilled,  for  one. 
LIEBEMACHER 
For  one. 

Now  John  stops  and  looks  at  a 
particular  doll.  After  a few 
moments,  he  starts  to  move  on, 
then  stops  and  looks  at  It 
again,  more  carefully. 

6.  THE  DOLL 

That  of  a hauntlngly  beautiful 
young  woman,  smiling 
tenderly. 

7.  JOHN 

As  an  expression  of,  almost, 
longing  develops  on  his  face. 
After  several  moments,  he 
reaches  out  and  lifts  the  doll 
off  Its  shelf,  draws  It  INTO 
FRAME  to  look  at  it. 


93 


The  Doll 


JOHN 

(eyes  on  the  doll) 

Is  this  one  for  sale,  Mr. 
Llebemacher? 
LIEBEMAGHER’S  VOICE 
If  It  Is  the  one  you  want. 
JOHN 

(pause;  softly) 

Yes;  It’s  the  one  I want. 

He  returns  the  doll’s  smile 
with  one  of  equal  tenderness. 
SERLING’S  VOICE 

An  exchange  of  smiles  In  a 
little  side  street  doll  shop; 
one,  the  smile  of  a nameless 
female  doll,  the  other,  that 
of  Mr.  John  Walters,  forty- 
two,  unmarried  - and  a very 
lonely  man. 

8.  SERLING  * 

SERLING 

Shortly,  Mr.  Walters  Is  to 
purchase  said  doll  and  take 
It  from  -the  shop;  this  much, 
he  already  knows.  What  he 
doesn’t  know  is  that,  having 
left  the  shop,  his  path  will 
be  directed  on  a straight  line 
- right  across  the  border  of 
the  'Twilight  Zone. 

FADE  OUT 
FIRST  COMMERCIAL 
FADE  IN: 

9.  INT.  RASMUSSEN  DINING 
ALCOVE  CLOSE  SHOT 
BIRTHDAY  CAKE 

Twelve  candles  burning  on  It. 
As  the  VOICES  of  Sally  and  Vln 
Rasmussen  and  John  begin  to 
sing,  CAMERA  DRAWS  BACK  to 
show  SALLY  - In  her  late 
thirties  and  portly  - emerging 
from  the  kitchen  Into  the 
dining  alcove  where  VI N, 

JOHN  and  DORIS  RASMUSSEN 
sit  at  the  table. 

THREE  ADULTS 
(singing) 

Happy  birthday  to  you. 
Happy  birthday  to  you. 
Happy  birthday,  dear  Doris. 
Happy  birthday  to  you. 

Vln  applauds  and  whistles 

94 


through  his  teeth.  John  beams. 
Sally  sets  the  cake  In  front  of 
her  daughter  and  kisses  her  on 
the  cheek. 

SALLY 

Happy  birthday,  sweetie. 

VIN 

(in  mock  dismay) 

Oh,  man,  look  at  all  those 
candles!  Twelve  years  old! 
DORIS 
(primly) 

Daddy. 

Vln  chuckles  and  musses  her 
hair  a bit.  Doris  pushes  away 
his  hand  with  a ladylike  cluck. 
VIN 

Okay;  blow  ’em  out, 

Granma,  blow  ’em  out! 

The  adults  watch  as  Doris 
takes  a deep  breath  and  blows 
on  the  candles,  failing  to 
extinguish  them  all. 

VIN 

^ oh.  Seven  years  bad  luck. 
DORIS 

(as  to  a child) 

Daddy;  that’s  for  broken 
mirrors. 

VIN 

Oh,  yeah? 

(wmks  at  John) 

Well,  you  ought  t’know, 
you’ve  lived  such  a long 
time.  I mean,  twelve  years 
old!  Wow! 

Doris  groans  in  surrender.  Vln 
laughs  as  Sally  picks  up  a long 
box  from  the  sideboard  and 
puts  it  on  Doris’  lap. 

SALLY 

From  Uncle  John. 

DORIS 

Oh.  It’s  so  big. 

VIN 

That’s  my  girl.  The  bigger, 
the  better. 

DORIS 

Daddy. 

She  tears  open  the  ribbon  and 
removes  the  cover  from  the 
box,  unable  to  hide  the  look  of 
blank  dismay  and  the  sound  of 
disappointment  as  she  sees 


what  It  Is.  Sally  glances  at 
her  brother. 

SALLY 
(forcing  It) 

Oh,  isn’t  she  lovely. 

Vln  represses  a grin  at  the 
look  on  his  daughter’s  face  as 
Doris  glances  at  her  mother - 
whose  exprejsslon  is  clear 
enough. 

DORIS 

(obediently) 

She’s  - pretty. 

JOHN 

Tell  me  If  you  don’t  like  her 
now.  I can  always  - 
DORIS 

No,  I - dc  like  her.  I . . . 
CAMERA  MOVES  IN  on  the 
doll  as  Doris  leans  her,  still  in 
the  box,  against  the  wall. 
DORIS’S  VOICE 

. . . think  she’s  nice. 

DISSOLVE  TO 

10.  INT.  RASMUSSEN  LIVING 
ROOM  CLOSE-UP 
DOLL  NIGHT 

Sitting  on  a chair. 

11.  UP  ANGLE  SHOT 

The  doll  In  foreground,  John  ir 
background,  smiling  down  at  It. 
He  starts  and  looks  around  as 
Vln  comes  out  of  the  kitchen. 
CAMERA  UP  PANS. 

VIN 

Sure  you  don’t  want  some 
beer.  Johnny-boy? 

JOHN 

No,  no;  thank  you.  I - really 
should  go. 

VIN 

What  for?  Stick  around.  " 
JOHN 

(uncertainly) 

Well  . . . 

They  both  look  around  as  Sally 
enters  from  the  hall.  Vln  drops 
onto  the  sofa. 

VIN 

Princess  In  bed? 

SALLY 

(crossing'  to  her  chair) 

Mmm  hm.m. 


(yawning) 

Think  she  had  a nice 
birthday? 

SALLY 

Sure. 

(as  she  sits  in  her  chair  and 
picks  up  her  knitting) 

Sit  down,  Johnny. 


JOHN 

Oh.' 

(awkwardly) 

I haven’t  seen  her  in  . . . 
since  before  last  Christmas. 

SALLY 

'Why?  She  seemed  very  nice. 
VIN 


JOHN 

Well,  I - should  be  going. 
SALLY 

Going?  We  haven’t  seen  you 
In  over  a month.  Sit  down. 
Tell  us  what  you’ve  been 
doing. 

JOHN 
Well  ... 

(sits) 

For  a little  while. 

(beat) 

Oh  . . . the  usual. 

VIN 

How’s  your  love  life. 
Johnny-boy? 

SALLY 
(to  Vln) 

Leave  it  to  you. 

(as  Vln  chuckles;  to  John) 

Have  you  been  out  with  that 
woman  again? 

JOHN 

Who’s  that? 

SALLY 

The  one  you  brought  to 


(clutching  at  his  head  In  mock 
agony) 

Alee.  Starts  with  the 
marriage  burfeau  again. 
SALLY 

Now  . . . 

VIN 

(mimicking) 

Now  . . . 

(beat) 

Gotta  marry  off  old  brother 
John.  Find  ’Im  a girl;  set  ’im 
up  for  the  kill. 

SALLY 

(feigning  disgust) 

Uh! 

VIN 

(looking  at  his  watch) 

Heyl  The  fights  are  on! 
Jumping  up,  he  moves  across 
the  room  to  the  television  set 
as  Sally  looks  back  at  her 
brother. 

SALLY 

Haven’t  you  been  seeing 
anyone,  Johnny? 


ViN 

(cutting  In) 

What  are  ya  pushln’  him 
for? 

SALLY 

Not  pushing  him. 

(beat) 

It’s  time  you  married, 
Johnny.  You’re  older  than  I 
am.  How  old  are  you?  Forty- 
two. 

VIN 

She  asks  the  question  - she 
answers  It. 

The  picture  tube  lights  up  and 
Vln  returns  to  the  sofa. 

SALLY 

You  may  wait  too  long, 
Johnny. 

John 

(smiling;  pained) 

I’m  all  right,  Sal.  Don’t 
worry  about  me. 
Bachelorhood  Isn’t  a- 
medieval  torture,  you  know. 
VIN 

(watching  the  tv) 

Hoo-hoo,  you  said  it. 
Johnny-boy! 

(a  la  Ed  Norton) 

Those  were  the  days!  Va-va- 
va-voom! 

SALLY 

(grimacing  In  pseudo-pain) 

And  I’m  married  to  him. 

.(to  John) 

Seriously,  Johnny. 

JOHN 

I’m  doing  fine,  Sal.  I’m  not- 

SALLY 
(cutting  In) 

You  are  lonely  and  you 
know  It.  Living  In  that- 
dlsmal,  little  apartment  all 
by  yourself. 

JOHN 

(trying  to  change  the  subject) 
Sal,  about  the  doll.  I made  a 
hnlstake;  I should  have 
known  that  Doris  was  too 
old  for  that  kind  of  thing.  •' 

SALLY 

(unconvincingly) 

No,  she’s  not. 


95 


The  DoU 


JOHN 

Sure,  she  is.  Let  me  take  it 
back  and  get  her  something 
she  can  use. 

VIN 

(watching  tv) 

She  wants  a wrlstwatch. 
SALLY 
vmi 
JOHN 

All  right;  fine.  Let  me  get 
her  a wrlstwatch  then. 
SALLY 

They  cost  too  much  money. 
John  stands  and  goes  to  the 
doll,  puts  It  in  the  box  as  he 
talks. 

JOHN 

No,  no;  look.  I’ll -take  the 
doll  back;  get  her  a * 
wrlstwatch  Instead.  It  won’t 
be  a -you  know,  diamond- 
studded  or  anything -but 
It’ll  be  a nice  watch. 

SALLY 

(regretfully) 

I don’t  like  to  ask  it  of  you, 
Johnny. 

JOHN 

Don’t  be  silly. 

(with  some  defeat) 

What’s  an  old- maid  uncle 
for? 

Sally  smiles  at  him  with 
sympathetic  understanding. 

DISSOLVE  TO: 

12.  INT.  CAE  ON  STEEET 

As  John  enters,  he  sets  the 
doll  box  next  to  driver’s  seat. 
After  a few  moments,  he 
reaches  over  and  takes  off  the 
box’s  cover,  lifts  out  the  doll 
and  stands  it  beside  himself. 

He  glances  at  It,  smiling. 

JOHN 

There  now;  you  can  see 
where  we’re  going. 

(pause) 

You’re  very  pretty,  did  you 
know  that? 

(pause) 

Yes,  I think  you  know  that, 
(beat) 

96 


You  don’t  mind  me  talking, 
do  you?  I don’t  have  very 
many  people  to  talk  to.  Mr. 
Llebemacher  - Sal  . . . that’s 
about  It. 

(pause;  musingly) 

Yes,  you’re  . . . very  pretty. 
Very  pretty. 

(pause;  sadly) 

Too  bad  you  aren’t  real. 
CAMERA  PANS  to  the  doll.  The 
street  lights  flashing  and 
lllumlnatmg  her  lovely  face- 
especlally  the  eyes -gives  it 
almost  the  appearance  of  life. 
The  car  starts. 


DISSOLVE  TO: 

13.  INT.  JOHN’S  BEDROOM 
ANGLE  ON  WINDOW 
NIGHT 

Faint  CITY  NOISES  m the 
distance.  CAMERA  PANS 
SLOWLY  across  the  darkened, 
unattractive  room  to  STOP  on 
John  In  bed,  staring  bleakly  at 
the  celling.  After  a while,  he 
sighs  and  sits  up,  his 
expression  one  of  deep 
melancholy.  Standing,  he 
trudges  to  the  bathroom,  turns 
on  its  light  and  gets  a drink  of 
water.  He  starts  to  turn  off  the 
light  and  sees  - 

14.  THE  DOLL  BOX 

Standing  on  a bedroom  chair, 
leaned  against  its  back. 

15.  JOHN 

Smiles  somberly  and  walks 
over  to  the  chair,  CAMERA 
MOVING  with  him.  He  removes 
the  cover  of  the  box.  The  doll’s 
eyes  are  open. 

JOHN 

What’s  the  matter,  can’t  you 
sleep  either? 

After  a moment  or  two,  he  sits 
on  an  edge  of  the  chair  and 
removes  the  doll  from  Its  box. 
CAMERA  STARTS  MOVING  IN 
on  the  doll’s  face. 

JOHN 

Just  a couple  of  insomniacs, 
that’s  us. 

(pause;  smiles) 


Well,  Miss  . . . what’s  your 
name? 

The  doll’s  eyes  are  in  extra 
close  up  now. 

16.  CLOSE-Ul?  JOHN 

JOHN 

(as  If  listening:) 

Mary,  you  say?  That’s  a nice 
name. 

(nods) 

Mary. 

(beat) 

I don’t  suppose  you  have  a 
last  name,  do  you? 

17.  EXTRA  CLOSE-UP 
DOLL’S  ElYES 

18.  CLOSE-UI>  JOHN 

Staring,  a bit  blankly. 

JOHN 
(dully)  , 

D1  . . . D1  . . . 

(starts;  blinking) 

Hmmmmm? 

He  looks  around,  then,  smiles 
at  the  doll. 

JOHN 

I’m  sorry  I drifted  away, 
(beat) 

How  old  are  you,  Mary?  No, 

I shouldn’t  ask  that,  should 
I?  It’s  not  p)Ollte  to  ask  a 
lady  her  age. 

(beat) 

But  I can  giess  though, 
huh? 

(estimating) 

Twenty-five,  twenty-six. 
(smiles  sadly) 

Too  young  for  me,  Mary. 

Way  too  young  for  me. 

He  stares  at  her, 
unaccountably  Intrigued  by  her 
face.  After  a vrhlle,  almost 
dreamily,  he  reaches  out  and 
strokes  her  cheek. 

JOHN 

Such  a face.  I’ve  never  seen 
a doll  so  beautiful. 

(beat) 

Did  Mr.  Llebemacher  make 
you  up  himself,  Mary?  It’s 
hard  to  believe. 

(poignantly) 


Althoiigh  I must  confess  I’ve 

- dreamed  of  such  a face 
myself.  I have;  yes.  Just 
such  a face  as  yours,  Mary 
Dl- 

He  breaks  off,  frowning  as  If 
he  is  losing  track  of  a much 
desired  thought.  Finally,  he 
lets  it  go  and  strokes  her  hair. 

JOHN 

(sadly) 

I’ll  take  you  back  to  Mr. 
Llebemacher  tomorrow, 

Mary.  You  wouldn’t  like  it 
here.  I’m  afraid.  It’s  a 
little  - 

(voice  almost  breaking) 

- cheerless,  don’t  you  know? 
CAMERA  MOVES  IN  on  them 
as  he  lowers  his  head  slowly, 
eyes  closing,  and  leans  his 
forehead  against  hers. 

19.  INSERT  DOLL’S  HAND 

Slipping  downward,  probably 
because  of  John  leaning 
against  the  doll. 

20.  CLOSE  SHOT  JOHN 

Twitching  and  catching  his 
breath,  looking  downward. 
CAMERA  DOWNPANS  to  show 
the  doll’s  right  hand  lying  on 
top  of  his  In  a comforting 
gesture. 

21.  JOHN 

Smllmg  sadly,  touched  by  this 
“coincidence.” 


DISSOLVE  TO: 


22.  INT.  JOHN’S  BEDROOM 
MORNING 

John  emerges  from  the 
bathroom,  humming  dolefully 
as  he  makes  a few  final 
adjustments  on  his  necktie. 
Removing  his  sultcoat  from  the 
closet,  he  dons  It  as  he  walks 
to  the  chair  on  which  the  doll 
Is  standing. 

JOHN 

Morning,  Mary. 

(picking  up  box) 

I’ll  take  you  back  where  you 
belong  now. 

He  props  the  box  on  the  chair, 
picking  up  the  doll  to  put  It 
into  the  box,  then  looking  at  it 
with  affection. 

JOHN 

Too  bad  I have  no  excuse  to 
keep  you. 

(grunts;  amused) 

That’d  be  a little  silly, 
wouldn’t  it?  A forty-two- 
year-old  man  with  a doll, 
(pause;  musingly) 

Still,  I . . . wish  there  were 
a reason. 

CAMERA  MOVES  IN  on  the 
doll’s  face  until  its  eyes  are  in 
extra  close  up. 

23.  CLOSE  SHOT  JOHN 

Brightening  as  the  idea 
“occurs”  to  him. 

JOHN 

Of  course.  It  would  hurt  Mr. 
Llebemacher’ s feelings  if  I 
brought  you  back.  Wouldn’t 


It?  Sure  It  would.  And  we 
don’t  want  to  do  that,  do 
we,  Mary?  After  all  the 
months  I’ve  gone  In  there 
and  talked  to  him  and  never 
bought  a thing. 

Smiling,  he  carries  her  toward 
the  doorway  to  the  living  room. 

24.  ENT.  LIVING  ROOM 

A small,  dingy-looklng  room. 
John  ENTERS  and  carries  the 
doll  to  an  armchair,  'Seats  her 
in  it. 

JOHN 

There.  Now  I’m  not  alone 
anymore.  I have  a girl 
friend.  Mary  Dl- 
(breaks  off,  mystified) 

What  is  it? 

(beat) 

I keep  thinking  you  have  a 
last  name. 

(beat) 

But  that’s  ridiculous.  Isn’t 
It? 

(smiling) 

Whoev^  heard  of  a doll  with 
a last  name? 

(amused) 

I’ll  have  to  call  up  Sal  today 
- tell  her  I have  a girl 
friend. 

(chuckling) 

I’ll  tell  her:  She’s  a doll, 
a real  doll. 

(looks  at  his  watch  and  hisses) 

I got  t’go!  See  you  later. 

He  turns  and  hurries  for  the 
door. 

25.  ANGLE  ON  DOOR 

John  ENTERS  FRAME  and 
stops  to  look  back  with  a 
smile. 

JOHN 

Don’t  go  ’way  now. 

26.  THE  DOLL 

Sitting  In  the  chair,  smiling. 

The  offscreen  door  SHUTS. 
CAMERA  HOLDS  FOR  several 
moments. 

DISSOLVE  TO: 


97 


The  DoU 


27.  INT.  KITCHEN  CLOSE 
ON  DOLL  NIGHT 

Sitting  at  the  table.  Offscreen 
are  the  sounds  of  John 
EATING  his  supper  as  he 
talks.  CAMERA  DRAWS  BACK 
to  show  a place  setting  In  front 
of  the  doll,  a few,  token 
portions  of  food  on  the  plate. 
CAMERA  STOPS  when  John  Is 
IN  SCENE. 

JOHN 

(with  appropriate  pauses) 

Don’t  tell  me  now;  let  me 
guess.  Uh  ...  a model?  No. 
An  actress?  Mmmm  ...  no; 
you’re  beautiful  enough  but 
- 1 don’t  think  so.  What 
then? 

(side  remark)  ^ 

You’re  not  eating,  you’ll  get 
sick. 

(continuing) 

Let’s  see  now.  A secretary. 
No.  A . 

His  voice  trails  off  and  he 
looks  at  her  Intently. 

28.  EXTRA  CLOSE-UP 
DOLL’S  FACE 

29.  JOHN 

Suddenly  “knowing.” 

JOHN 

A school  teacher!  That’s 
what  you  are.  Of  course.  A 
school  teacher. 

(grunts;  smiles  admiringly) 
What  happy  students  you 
must  have,  Miss  - ? 

(beat;  pointing  at  her) 

You  ^ have  a last  name.  I 
don’t  know  what  It  Is,  but- 
He  thinks  about  It  for  a 
moment  or  so. 

JOHN 

Dllllnger?  No,  what  am  I 
saying? 

(self-castlgatlng) 

Dllllnger. 

(beat) 

Dillon?  Dlnsmore? 

(closer.  It  seems) 

Dixon. 

(gives  up) 

Oh,  well,  It  doesn’t  matter, 
(smiles) 

98 


You’re  Mary  to  me. 

He  stares  at  her,  entranced. 

30.  EXTRA  CLOSE-UP 
DOLL’S  FACE 

JOHN’S  VOICE 
That  face. 

31.  JOHN  AND  DOLL 

The  doll  In  foreground,  back  to 
camera. 

JOHN 

That  enchanting  face.  Is  It- 
posslble  that  Mr. 

Llebemacher  made  It  up 
himself? 

32.  CLOSE-UP  JOHN 

JOHN 

(wistfully) 

Or  could  there  have  been  a 
model? 

33.  JOHN  AND  DOLL 

After  a moment,  John  slumps 
visibly. 

JOHN 

So  what  If  there  was?  What 
difference  does  It  make  to 
me? 

(beat) 

What  do  I think  I’m  going  to 
do?  Find  out  who  she  Is?  - 
Meet  her? 

He  laughs  In  self-contempt. 
JOHN 

Sure.  She’ll  take  one  look  at 
me  and  say- 
(mocklng  himself) 

“John,  I’ve  been  waiting  for 
■you  a long,  long  time.  I’ve 
always  wanted  to  marry  a- 
(Increaslngly  bitter) 

- balding,  pot-bellied, 
middle-aged  creep!” 

He  breaks  off  with  what  is 
perilously  close  to  a sob  and, 
abruptly,  bends  his  head 
forward.  When  he  finally  looks 
back  up,  his  eyes  are 
glistening. 

JOHN 

I’m  sorry,  Mary. 

(beat) 

I get  - pretty  maudlin 
sometimes,  I’m  afraid.  . 
(forcing  a smile) 


I don’t  meein  to  be  offensive, 
(pause) 

Please  forgive  me. 

He  starts  to  eat  in  silence. 


34.  INT.  LI\TNG  ROOM 
CLOSE  ON  TELEVISION 
SET  NIGHT 

A variety  program  In  progress: 
a woman  dancer,  a juggler, 
magician;  anything.  CAMERA 
PANS  TO  John  sitting  on  the 
armchair,  gazing  steadily  at  -the 
doll  which  Is  sitting  on  the 
arm  of  the  chair,  apparently 
absorbed  In  the  tv  program.  ■ 
CAMERA  MOVES  IN  on  them 
until  they  are  In  TIGHT  TWO 
SHOT. 

JOHN 

Would  he  think  me  a fool  for 
asking? 

(pause) 

Would  he  think  me  a . . . 
terrible  foc'l? 

DISSOLVE  TO: 

35.  INT.  DOLL  SHOP 
ANGLE  THROUGH 
WINDO’Vr  DAY 

John  ENTERS  FRAME  and 
looks  Into  the  shop  uncertainly. 
He  stands  motionless,  gnawing 
on  the  edge  of  a finger,  then, 
finally,  summons  up  the  nerve 
to  move  for  the  door. 

36.  CLOSE  ON  DOOR 

As  John  ENTERS  and  closes 
the  door  behind  himself. 
LIEBEMACHER’S  VOICE 
Ah;  Mr.  Walters. 

JOHN 

Mr.  Llebemacher. 

CAMERA  DRAWS  AWAY  from 
him  as  he  moves  to  the  work 
bench. 

JOHN 

(as  he  walks) 

How  are  you? 

LIEBEMACHER’S  VOICE 
Oh  . . . gus,  gut.  And 
yourself? 


JOHN 

Fine,  thank  you. 

The  old  doll  maker  is  IN 
SCENE  now.  CAMERA  STOPS. 
LIEBEMACHER 

What  did  your  niece  think  of 
the  doll? 

JOHN 

(swallows) 

She  liked  It  - very  much. 
LIEBEMACHER 
Gut. 

(gesturing) 

Well;  make  yourself  to  home. 

JOHN 

Thank  you. 

Without  wanting  to,  he  turns 
away;  then,  as  If  the  memory 
has  Just  occurred  to  him,  he 
turns  back. 

JOHN 

Oh;  yes,  I almost  forgot.  My, 
uh,  niece  wants  me  to  ask 
you  If  you,  uh  - eveir  its’e 
models  for  your  dolls.  The 
reason  she  wants  to  know  is 
that  the  doll  I gave  her  has 
such  a - unique  face;  so 
beautiful,  so  - real. 
LIEBEMACHER 

cM;  occasionally,  I use  a 
model.  It  depends  on  the 
circumstances. 


37.  JOHN 

It  is  clear  to  see  that  he  will  be 
crushed  If  the  answer  Is  no. 

JOHN 

(mutedly) 

Did  you  use  a model  for  that 
particular  doll? 

38.  LIEBEMACHER 

LIEBEMACHER  ^ 

(thinking) 

Let  me  see.  That  was  the 

one  . . . 

(points  offscreen) 

. . . over  there. 

39.  JOHN 

Tense  with  anxiety. 

LIEBEMACHER’S  VOICE 
(pause) 

Ja;  Ja,  there  was  a model  for 
that  one,  as  a matter  of  fact. 
John  reacts  strongly,  then 
remembers  that  he  is, 
ostensibly,  asking  for  his  niece 
and  tries  hard  to  control  his 
excitement. 

JOHN 

Oh?  How  Interesting, 
(swallows) 

Who  was  It? 

40.  LIEBEMACHER 

Trying  to  remember. 


LIEBEMACHER 

Ah.  What  was  her  name? 

(a  fmger-tapplng  pause;  he 
recalls) 

Mary. 

41.  JOHN 
Stunned. 

LIEBEMACHER’S  VOICE 
Mary  . . . Dickinson.  Ja, 
that’s  it. 

(beat;  casually) 

She  Is  a high  school  teacher. 
John  looks  at  the  old  man  In 
dumbfounded  silence. 

FADE  OUT 
END  ACT  ONE 
FADE  IN: 

48.  EXT.  SUBURBAN  STREET 
JOHN’S  CAR  LATE 
AFTERNOON 

Being  driven  slowly  along  the 
street,  John  looking  at  the 
house  numbers. 

43.  INT.  CAR  CLOSE  ON 
JOHN 

His  expression  a strange  one, 
compounded  of  awe,  excitement 
and  uneasiness. 

JOHN 

(tensely) 

How  could  I have,  possibly, 
guessed  her  name? 

(beat) 

Even  that  she  was  a school 
teacher.  I don’t  understand; 

I just  don’t  understand. 

After  a while,  he  glances  to  his 
right,  a look  of  vaguely  defined 
uneasiness  on  'his  face. 

44.  THE  DOLL  AND  JOHN 

The  doll  In  close  foreground, 
seen  in  profile.  John,  In 
background,  looking  at  It  with 
uncertain  suspicion.  Abruptly, 
he  makes  a scoffing  noise  and 
turns  to  the  front  again, 
dtoounting  the  idea  as  absurd. 

45.  ANOTHER  ANGLE 
JOHN  FEATURED 

He  reaches  forward  to  take  a 
slip  of  paper  off  the  flat  area 
above  the  speedometer. 

•1? 


99 


TheDoU 


JOHN 

(distractedly) 

What  was  that  number 
again? 

(looks  at  the  slip) 

6-5-3-2. 

He  puts  the  slip  back  in  Its 
place  as  he  looks  out  at  the 
house  numbers  again.  His  grip 
tightens  on  the  steering  wheel. 
JOHN 

(self-dlsparaglngly) 

What’s  the  matter  with  me 
anyway?  Why  am  I doing 
this? 

I He  twists  uncomfortably. 

JOHN 

What  do  I think?  I’m  going 
to  knock  on  her  door  and 
tell  her:  “He.v;  I,  uh,  saw 
your  face  on  a doll  and*! 
guessed  your  name  and  Mr. 
Llebemacher  gave  me  your 
address,  so  - hello?” 

(groans) 

She’d  call  the  police. 

(beat) 

She’d  have  me  committed! 
(pause;  gloomily) 

You  know  darn  well  she’s 
gotten  married  by  now, 
Walters.  What’s  the  matter 
with  you?  A young,  beautiful 
woman  like  that. 

(groans  again) 

I must  be  out  of  my  mind. 
He  breaks  off,  tensing,  as  he 
sees,  across  the  street  ahead: 

46.  THE  HOUSE  JOHN’S 
P.O.V. 

CAMERA  ZOOMS  IN  on  the 
numbers  fastened  to  one  of  the 
front  porch  columns:  5532. 

47.  THE  CAR 

John  pulls  the  car  to  the  curb 
and  brakes  It. 

48.  INT.  CAR  JOHN 

Looking  at  the  house  with  a 
frightened,  pained  expression. 
He  reaches  for  the  door  handle, 
then,  abruptly,  jerks  back  his 
hand  and  hooks  111. 

JOHN 

Sal’s  right;  I ^ lonely.  So 
lonely  that  my  mind  Is 

100 


cracking. 

(scofflngly) 

I guessed  her  name.  Sure. 
Mary’s  such  an  unusual 
name;  I never  heard  It 
before  In  my  life. 

(beat) 

And  I guessed,  right  off,  she 
was  a school  teacher,  didn’t 
I?  Sure.  After  about  a dozen 
other  guesses. 

(covering  his  eyes) 

No.  No  mystery  here.  Except 
what  makes  me  think  that  I 
have  anything  to  say  to  her. 
He  picks  up  the  doll  and  holds 
It  out  as  if  showing ‘It  to  Mary 
Dickinson. 

JOHN 

(as  if  to  Mary) 

Say,  uh,  here’s  that  doll  you 
posed  for.  How  about  that? 
Isn’t  that  mtrlgulng? 

(beat) 

By  the  way,  will  you  marry 
me? 

He  looks  grimly  distraught, 
then,  torturing  himself, 
continues  the  Imagined  scene. 
JOHN 

I know  I’m  not  much  to 
look  at,  Miss  Dickinson,  but 
there’s  the  comnpensatlon 
that  I don’t  have  any  money, 
either. 

Immediately,  he  groans  In  self- 
disgust  and  puts  aside  the  doll. 
JOHN 

What’s  the  use? 

(beat;  faintly) 

What’s  the  use? 

He  sits  restlessly  for  a few 
moments,  then,  on  Impulse, 
starts  the  motor.  Instantly,  he 
cuts  It  off  again,  stiffening  ' 
willfully. 

JOHN 

No. 

(shakily) 

If  I don’t  - get  It  out  of  my 
system,  I really  will  go 
crazy. 

(looking  at  the  house) 

All  she  can  do  Is- 
(angulshed) 

- laugh  at  me. 


He  presses  together  his 
shaking  lips  and,  bracing 
himself,  pulls  up  the  door 
handle,  starts  to  get  out. 

49.  EXT.  CAR 

As  John  gets  out,  waits  for  a 
car  to  pass,  then  crosses  the 
street  on  trembling  legs, 
CAMERA  PANNING  with  him. 
He  stops  on  the  sidewalk  In 
front  of  the  house,  hesitates. 

JOHN 

She  probably  doesn’t  even 
live  here  anymore.. 

(pause;  grimly) 

Oh  . . . well,  play  It  out,' 
man  - play  It  out. 

With  the  expression  of  a 
prisoner  about  to  face  the 
firing  squad,  he  forces  himself 
up  the  walk. 

50.  EXT.  PORCH  ANGLE 
ON  WALK 

John  comes  up  the  walk  with 
timorous  reluctance,  ascends 
the  porch  steps  and  moves  to 
the  mailbox,  CAMERA 
PANNING  with  him.  Looking 
straight  ahead,  he  tightens  his 
face  Into  a rl^^ld  mask,  then, 
abruptly,  ducks  his  head  to 
look  at  the  name  on  the 
mailbox.  He  squeaks  In 
surprise. 

51.  INSERT  MAILBOX 

The  nameplate  reads:  Mary 
Dickinson. 

JOHN’S  VOICE 
She  here. 

52.  JOHN 

Shudders,  staring  at  her  name. 
JOHN 

She  Isn’t  married  then, 
(feebly) 

Oh. 

He  swallows  with  effort,  starts 
to  reach  for  the  doorbell,  then 
draws  back  his  hand. 

JOHN 

She’s  probably  not  home. 
Probably  at  school. 

(bitterly) 

School,  my  eye.  She’s, 


probably  getting  ready  for  a 
date. 

He  stares  at  the  doorbell,  starts 
to  reach  for  it  again.  Abruptly, 
his  arm  drops. 

JOHN 

[with  utter  self-contempt) 

Oh,  I am  ridiculous. 

He  turns  away. 

53.  LONG  SHOT  HOUSE 

Angle  through  the  Interior  of 
the  car.  John  descends  the 
porch  steps,  strides  quickly 
lown  the  walk  and  across  the 
street  to  get  into  the  car,  his 
face  a mask  of  bitter  defeat. 
Starting  the  motor,  he  pulls 
iway,  moving  OUT  OF  FRAME. 

DISSOLVE  TO: 

54.  DSFT.  JOHN’S  LIVING 
ROOM  ANGLE  ON 
DOOR  NIGHT 

Almost  dark.  The  sound  of 
John’s  key  UNLOCKING  the 
door  Is  heard;  then  Jofm 
ENTERS,  carrying  the  doll.  He 
sets  It  down  on  the  table  beside 
the  door,  drops  his  key  ring 
next  to  the  doll  and  walks  Into 
he  living  room  where  he  starts 
to  pace  restlessly,  striking  the 
palm  of  his  left  hand  with  the 
bunched  fist  of  his  right. 

JOHN 

Now  what? 

[beat) 

Back  to  the  same  old  grind? 
Forget  the  whole  thing? 

He  stops  at  the  window  and 
looks  out. 


55.  CLOSE  SHOT  JOHN 

JOHN 

Why  can’t  I just  go  up  to 
her  house  - ring  her  doorbell 
and- 

(with  distressed  amusement) 

- run. 

56.  MED.  SHOT  JOHN 

He  begins  to  pace  again,  then 
stops  abruptly. 

JOHN 

(tensely) 

I mean,  why  can’t  I just 
talk  to  her?  She  Isn’t  going 
to  break  my  arm.  Is  she? 
Isn’t  It  possible  she  might 
be  willing  to-? 

His  shoulders  slump.  He  lowers 
himself  Into  his  armchair. 

57.  CLOSE  SHOT  JOHN 

As  he  falls  against  the  chair 
back,  his  expression  one  of 
defeat. 

JOHN 

Sure.  Sure. 

(a  la  Mary  Dickinson) 

Please  come  In,  Mr.  Walters. 
It’s  true  that  I’m  a beautiful 
young  woman  and  you’re  a 
middle-aged  slob  . . . but 
come  in  anyway,  you 
fascinate  me. 

He  breaks  off  with  a laugh 
which  Is  almost  a sob,  his 
smile  embittered,  lost.  He 
covers  his  eyes. 

JOHN 

(lifelessly) 

How’s  your  love  life. 
Johnny-boy? 

(beat) 


Not  so  good. 

(shaking  his  head  and 
whispering) 

Not  so  good. 

There  Is  a sudden  offscreen 
CRASH  which  makes  him  start, 
jerking  his  hand  away  from 
his  eyes  and  looking  in  that 
direction  - toward  the  front 
door.  Now  he  turns  on  the 
lamp  beside  him  and,  standing, 
walks  across  the  living  room, 
CAMERA  MOVING  with  him. 

He  stops  near  the  front  door, 
looking  down  at  the  floor  with 
a strange  expression  on  his 
face. 

58.  THE  DOLL 

Lying  twisted  on  the  floor, 
smiling  up  at  him.  Its  rght 
arm  raised.  Dangling  from  Its 
fingers  Is  John’s  ke.y  ring. 

59.  JOHN 

Many  emotions  passing  across 
his  face  - uneasiness,  awe, 
disbelief,  then,  finally,  a kind 
of  hope  which  defies  all  logic. - 
Grasping  hold  of  this  with  . 
what  will  he  can  manage,  he 
stoops  down,  picks  up  the  doll 
and  keys  and,  after  looking  at 
them  another  moment,  stands 
and  leaves  the  apartment 
hastily. 

60.  EXT.  STREET  CAR 

As  John  pulls  up  in  front  of 
Mary  Dickinson’s  house. 

61.  CLOSE  SHOT  JOHN 

Looking  toward  the  offscreen 
house. 

6S.  P.O.V.  SHOT  HOUSE 

There  is  a light  In  the  living 
room. 

63.  JOHN 

Sitting  Immobile,  resolution 
waning  fast.  He  looks  over 
worriedly  at  the  doll. 

JOHN 

Is*  It  possible? 

64.  THE  DOLL 

Smiling  with  assurance. 

JOHN’S  VOICE 
^ it? 

■a 


101 


The  DoU 


66.  JOHN  AND  DOLL 

JOHN 

(surrendering  again) 

No.  It  was  just  an  accident, 
you  falling  like  that.  It 
wasn’t  any  . . . sign. 

(pause;  grits  his  teeth) 

It  doesn’t  matter  what  It 
was.  I can’t  back  down  now; 
I can’t. 

(pause;  bracing  himself) 

Well,  here  goes  nothing. 
Grabbing  the  doll,  he  opens  the 
car  door. 

66.  EXT.  CAR 

As  John  gets  out  with  the  doll 
and,  driving  himself  to  It, 
starts  up  the  walk  toward  the 
house. 

67.  LONG  SHOT  ANGIiE 
FROM  PORCH 

John  comes  up  the  walk,  slows 
down,  then  forces  himself  up 
the  steps  and  across  the  porch 
to  the  door,  CAMERA 
PANNING  with  him.  Once 
more,  he  is  ready  to  bolt.  He 
looks  at  the  doll  pleadingly. 
JOHN 

Tell  me  this  Is  what  I’m 
supposed  to  do.  Tell  me 
I’m  not  just  kidding  myself 
that  . . . 

His  voice  trails  off.  He 
summons  up  another  burst  of 
courage  and,  grimacing,  pushes 
the  doorbell  button.  Instantly, 
he  draws  back  In  alarm, 
seriously  considering  flight.  His 
Ups  begin  to  tremble  and  he 
crimps  them  together 
reactlvely,  holding  the  doll  in  a 
rigid  grip.  He  stares 
apprehensively  at  the  door.  In 
a few  moments,  FOOTSTEPS 
sound  inside.  A look  of  panic 
floods  across  his  face;  he 
makes  a faint  noise  In  his 
throat  denoting  terror. 

JOHN 

(feebly;  pitiably) 

Please  don’t  laugh  at  me. 

The  offscreen  door  Is  OPENED. 

MARY’S  VOICE 
Yes? 


All  John  can  do  Is  gape. 

68.  CLOSE  SHOT  MARY 
DICKINSON 

The  face  Is  recognizable  as  that 
of  the  doll  - but  It  Is  much 
older.  Like  John,  Mary 
Dlckmson  Is  also  In  her 
forties. 

MARY 

Can  I help  you? 

69.  TWO  SHOT  JOHN  AND 
MARY 

JOHN 

I . . . 

He  cannot  go  on.  He  stares  at 
her,  astounded.  At  last,  with 
the  utmost  futility,  he  holds 
out  the  doll.  Mary  looks  at  it, 
reacting. 

JOHN 

(weakly) 

It’s  you. 

MARY 

(somewhat  dazed) 

It 

JOHN 

(taken  aback) 

Don’t  you  recognize  It? 

MARY 
Well,  I- 

She  looks  at  the  doll  again. 
MARY 

- I can  see  the  resemblance 
but  - I don’t  - 

JOHN  . 

(more  confused) 

You  didn’t  model  for  It? 
MARY 
(startled) 

Model  for  It? 

(beat) 

Why  do  you  say  that? 

JOHN 

He  told  me  you  did. 

(uneasily) 

You  are  Miss  Dickinson, 
aren’t  you?  A high  school 
teacher? 

MARY 

(dumbly) 

How  did  you  know? 

JOHN 

Mr.  Liebemacher  told  me. 
Mary  catches  her  breath.  Then 


she  takes  a closer  look  at  him.  j 
It  Is  her  tur.n  to  gape  now.  ' 
JOHN 
(uneasily) 

You  - know  who  he  Is,  don’t 
you? 

MARY 

(strangely) 

Yes.  I knew  him.  I go  Into 
his  shop  quite  often. 

JOHN 

But  you  didn’t  - model? 

MARY 

I didn’t  know  I had. 

(beat) 

I didn’t  even  know  the  doll 
existed. 

JOHN 

(totally  confused) 

That’s  odd.  Why  would  Mr. 
Liebemacher  do  a thing  like 
that? 

MARY 

(quietly) 

Come  in,  Mr.  - 
JOHN 
(startled) 

Walters. 

(lncredulousl,y) 

You  - want,  me  to  - ? 

MARY 

Please.  Come  In. 

He  swallows;  enters,  smiling 
falterlngly. 

70.  INT.  KL^lLLWAY 

Mary  closes  t,he  door  and  looks 
at  him  closely  again -as  if  she 
cannot  believe  her  eyes. 

JOHN 

What  Is  It? 

MARY 

Come  inside. 

She  turns  and  enters  the  living 
room.  John  follows. 

71.  INT.  LTTING  ROOM 

Mary  ENTERS,  followed  by 
John  who  l0(3ks  around. 

JOHN 

(hopefully) 

You  ...  live  alone.  Miss 
Dickinson? 

72.  CLOSE  ON  MARY 

As  she  looks  around,  obviously  j 


102 


under  the  grip  of  an  emotion 
similar  to  that  which  John 
has  been,  cumulatively, 
experiencing:  awe,  gravitating 
toward  hope. 

MARY 

Yes. 

(telling  the  story) 

Quite  - alone. 

73.  TWO  SHOT  JOHN  AND 
MARY 

Looking  at  each  other  in 
silence,  John  smiling  with 
Instinctive  friendliness  after  a 
few  moments.  Now  Mary  turns 
and  moves  OUT  OF  FRAME, 
tie  watches  her. 

74.  MAEY 

Moving  up  to  the  fireplace,  her 
body  blocking  off  what  she  Is 
looking  at  - something  on  the 
mantel.  She  stands  motionless. 

75.  JOHN 

Watching  her,  not 
understanding.  Now,  offscreen 
her  dress  RUSTLES  as  she 
turns.  John  tightens  In 
amazement. 

76.  MARY 

Holding  a doll.  CAMERA 
ZOOMS  IN  on  the  doll’s  smiling 
face.  It  Is  a .younger  version 
of  John’s  face. 


77.  JOHN 

Agape.  Slowly,  CAMERA 
MOVING  with  him,  he  moves 
over  to  Mary  and  takes  a close 
look  at  the  doll. 

JOHN 

(dumbfounded) 

Hey.  That’s  me. 

MARY 

(softly) 

Yes. 

JOHN 

I mean,  a lot  younger,  but 

. . . me. 

MARY 

(smiling) 

I’m  not  quite  as  young  as 
my  doll,  either. 

John  touches  the  doll  she 
holds,  looks  up  at  Mary. 

JOHN 

Mr.  Llebemacher? 

MARY 

(smiling) 

He  told  me  that  you’d 
modeled  for  it. 

John  draws  In  a long  breath, 
understanding. 

JOHN 

Oh  . . . 

MARY 

He  even  gave  me  your 
address  but,  of  course,  I . . . 


She  doesn’t  finish.  They  look  at 
each  other.  Then  John  starts. 
JOHN 

I just  thought  of  something. 
MARY 
What? 

JOHN 

(beat) 

You’re  a teacher.  Doesn’t 
Llebemacher  mean- 
(swallows) 

-maker  of -love? - 
MARY 

(represses  a smile) 

Yes,  that  . . . would  be  one 
translation. 

They  look  at  each  other  again. 
Then  Mary  turns  and  places 
her  doll  back  on  the  mantel. 
After  a moment,  with 
reverence,  John  places  his  doll 
beside  hers.  Again,  they  look  at 
each  other. 

MARY 

(quietly) 

May  I offer  you  a cup  of 
coffee,  jVlr.  Walters? 

JOHN 

(saying  so  much  more) 

Oh,  yes,  Miss  Dlckmson.  I 
would  like  a cup  of  coffee 
very  much. 

They  move  OUT  OF  SCENE  and 
CAMERA  MOVES  IN  on  the 
two  dolls  sitting,  side  by  side, 
on  the  mantel. 

SERLING’S  VOICE 

Sir  Edwm  Arnold  said  It: 
Somewhere  there  walteth  in 
this  world  of  ours/  For  one 
lone  soul,  another  lonely 
soul/  Each  chasing  each 
through  all  the  weary 
hours/  And  meeting 
strangely  at  one  sudden  goal. 
To  which  It  might 
be  added:  Especially  when 
assisted  by  one  Mr. 
Llebemacher  and  the  more 
accommodating  Influences  - 
of  the  Twilight  Zone. 

FADE  OUT 

THE  END  iB 


103 


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1 N' 

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A 

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In  July’s  TZ . . . 


l»HOTO$  or  Tltt  THINO.*  OHOSTLY  HHTAIN.  Ir  ^THi  UST  HORROR  NLM* 


ROBERT 

SILVERBE 

CJnmasks  a 
demon  in 
‘Not  our 
BrotNw* 


THE 

THINO’ 

Ubocld 
FirilCcriCMT 
Preview 
of  John 
Carpenter’s 
New  Film 


STfPHiN 
KINO 

onTlM  Boogent’ 
Special 
Quest  Revtew 


Eight  Uniofgettabto 

StOlfOS  Including 
Three  Journeys  into  Nightmare 
and  Joan  Aiken's  new  chiller 


interview: 

ROBfRTSON 

DAVliS’ 

World  of 
Wonders 


Photo  Tour: 

Brttahi’t 

Ancient 

Mysterlet 


Making 

The  Last 
Honror 
FHm’ 

Exclusive 

FIkHos 


ROD  SERUNO*$ 

‘100  Yards  Over  Uhe  Rim* 


Robert  Silverberg  returns  with  a tale  of  ter- 
ror about  ancient  rites,  a demonic  mask,  and  the 
thing  that  lurks  behind  it  in  NOT  OUR  BROTHER 
. . . THE  THING  returns  in  John  Carpenter’s  new 
film,  previewed  in  color  by  Robert  Martin  . . . And 
look  for  a special  Guest  Film  Review:  Stephen  King 
on  THE  BOOGENS  . . . No  one  has  stronger  or 
more  unusual  views  about  fantasy,  ghosts,  and  the 
force  of  evil  than  Robertson  Davies— as  you’ll  learn 
in  July’s  TZ  Interview,  a fascinating  conversation 
with  Canada’s  literary  magician,  regarded  by  many 
as  among  the  greatest  writers  of  this  century  . . . 
You’ll  also  see  Davies  in  a lighter  mood:  a lip- 
smacking treat  called  OFFER  OF  IMMORTALITY 
. . . Visit  Stonehenge,  where  the  ghosts  of  Druids 
walk,  and  linger  at  a haunted  abbey  in  the  photo 
essay  A GLIMPSE  OF  GHOSTLY  BRITAIN  . . . 
You’ll  learn  how  an  enterprising  producer  with  little 
106 


money,  not  much  time,  but  plenty  of  chutzpah  made 
THE  LAST  HORROR  FILM  in  the  middle  of  the 
Cannes  Film  Festival,  using  a cast  of  thousands  . . . 
Rod  Serling’s  A HUNDRED  YARDS  OVER  THE 
RIM  offers  a classic  Tmlight  Zone  script— complete 
with  photos— about  a man  who  visits  the  future  in  an 
effort  to  save  his  dying  son  . . . You’ll  also  take 
THREE  JOURNEYS  INTO  NIGHTMARE:  to  a 
chilling  PICNIC  AREA  by  Joan  Aiken,  a terrifying 
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Craig  Anderson  . . . Plus  a typically  wacky  tale 
from  Joe  Lansdale,  a touching  fantasy  from  Lewis 
Shiner,  and  a vital  report  on  the  aliens  among  us 
fi"om  Hal  Goodman  . . . And  as  usual,  Thomas 
Disch  on  books.  Jack  Sullivan  on  spectral  music, 
and  a second  helping  of  ETC.  ...  It’s  all  in  July’s 
TtuiLi^ht  Zone,  for  just  two  dollars.